Etermity
by Austenwoolf
Summary: Completly revised and edited. New material. An AU that eventually crosses with the normal timeline. Time is in danger and everyone from Q to a new mysterious race put everything on the line to save it. While a single woman tries to restore balance.
1. Default Chapter

Okay guys, how many of you remember this story? Not many. That's okay because I totally rewrote the whole thing. For those of you who do remember, the chapters I posted previously have been switched around a bit. The stuff I'm posting now is the new beginning. Confused yet? You should try writing this mammoth thing, now that's confusion. I have a good portion of it done now, and will be posting the new sections as I get them edited and cleaned up. I'm hoping some feedback will spark my muse into finishing the back stretch of this story. So please let me know what you think  
  
This story would not have gotten this far without a few people. Miriam, I just cannot think you enough for the work you have put into this. You are a Godsend to this non-spelling, grammar impaired writer. Patty (wherever you are) your twisted sense of humor never fails to make me laugh.  
  
Rating R (there may be some things that bother people in future chapters. Consider yourself warned.)  
  
A. N. This A. U. piece intersects with the normal timeline. The characters in this timeline are different, and the product of my own twisted imagination.  
  
Disclaimer: Sorry Paramount. Had to be done.  
  
Prologue: The Beginning  
  
The Guardian of Forever. The protector of Time, and preserver of humanity. Saving us not only from powers outside our reckoning, but from ourselves as well.  
  
More than Guardian, it is keeper, keeper of our stories. Stories of all that we were, what we are, and what we might become.  
  
Every soul that has passed through this earthly plain, no matter how short, how long, how grand, or insignificant has a story to tell. And the Guardian is keeper of all of them.  
  
It holds these stories, these crystal shards of our lives, waiting to share them with those who would ask. For only in the telling can the true power of a story unfold.  
  
The woman, who stood before the circular stone monument in the Terrain year of 2368, was not unlike the others who came to the Guardian. Perhaps more battered than most. Wounds puckered the silky fabric of both her body and mind. Yet despite her beleaguered spirit, she came to the Guardian as others did, looking for answers.  
  
No matter their initial reason for being there, in the end, it was always the same quest. The same eternal search for the answer to that all encompassing question. Why?  
  
Why are we here? Why did it have to happen? Why are the Gods so cruel?  
  
But it is not the Guardian's purpose to answer. All it can do is tell the stories. It is for those who see the stories to figure out why. For the answer lies inside all of us.  
  
It always has. 


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One: 2368  
  
To see a world in a grain of sand  
And Heaven in a wildflower  
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand  
And eternity in an hour.  
William Blake  
From Auguries of Innocence  
  
Starfleet Intelligence officer, Deanna Troi stood in front of the Guardian of Forever, and for the first time in years felt the presence of the Gods.  
  
Standing on this paradox of a planet, hearing the eerie soul searing wind howl in her ears, she was overcome with a sense of awe. Like most who found themselves face to face with divinity, she also felt very insignificant.  
  
She shifted her weight from foot to foot. For a moment, she imagined herself beaming back to her ship, feeding random coordinates into the computer, and high tailing it the hell out of there. In this fantasy, she would tell Starfleet Intelligence to find someone else to assign to this freakish world. She would refuse to go back and feel the humbling reverence that made her knees want to buckle beneath her.  
  
They would understand that, right?  
  
No probably not.  
  
She looked back the way she had come with longing. It suddenly struck her that this was one of those rare moments in life when she could clearly see the crossroads before her.  
  
Behind her was the warm bed in her guest quarters, the sleeping scientists stationed here, and the ever-present grief.  
  
Before her was the hand of Destiny in physical form.  
  
She absently ran her fingers along the inside of her wrist and up her arm. Through the gossamer thin material of her nightshirt, she could feel the three-centimeter long vertical scar that ran up her wrist. It was a comforting gesture for her, in its own odd way.  
  
Every time she touched the scar she once again felt the cold steel of the Klingon dagger parting her flesh with deadly ease. The tickling sensation as her warm blood ran from the wound and oozed a path around her wrist. The image of the vivid red fluid dripping on the pristine white marble of the vanity.  
  
She almost succeeded in taking her life that day. Despite her best efforts, she survived. She made herself a promise after that, no matter what, she would continue to live. To be witness for those who had passed beyond this life. And part of that promise involved the Guardian.  
  
Even now, she could feel its pull on her. The power radiating from the stone vibrated through her booted feet and set her nerves on edge. Even the howling wind seemed to be calling her name, melding with the screams of the long dead that echoed in her head. As she looked at the Guardian, she knew she could not leave. Whatever answers she sought they could only be found here. She began to move slowly toward the monument.  
  
She stopped when she felt a tingle of awareness through her empathic senses. Though she was alone she knew exactly where the sensation was coming from, the Guardian. It knew she was here, and was waiting for her request. But what did she want? While she knew she sought answers, she did not yet know the question.  
  
Than it suddenly struck her. The moment when her life began to feel wrong. The day she became aware of how unjust the universe could be, and how cruel life truly was.  
  
"Show me the Romulan invasion of Betazed."  
  
As she spoke, the winds grew in intensity whipping her hair fiercely across her face. The power emanating from the Guardian increased, making her body tingle, and the images of her life began to flash in the center.  
  
As she watched the images, her own mind spewed forth memories she had buried away long ago. Things best left forgotten. She wanted to look away, wanted to lock the memories back where they belonged, but once it started there was no way to turn it off. So, she watched, and relived the moment her life fell apart.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
{Little One, what are you doing?} Lwaxana's stern mental voice reached her daughter's mind, and she froze awkwardly, with her hands grasping a branch of the apple tree she was preparing to climb. Deanna could hear her mother's multi-layered skirts swish as she moved across the garden. She let go of the branch and turned to face Lwaxana's disapproving eyes.  
  
{I was trying to help Mr. Whiskers down from the tree. He is stuck.} Deanna repressed a tremble. She was afraid her mother would be angry.  
  
{Dear if that accursed cat could get up that tree in the first place, I am sure he can get back down again. Besides, you're wearing your new dress and the ceremony starts in an hour. I will not have a Daughter of the Fifth House appearing in public in rags,} Lwaxana said as she inspected Deanna's pink dress for any sign of damage or dirt. When she was sure the dress was still intact she took Deanna's hand. {Why don't we go back to the house and Mr. Homm will make a snack for you before we go.}  
  
{Yes mother,} Deanna relented with one last look at her cat sitting on the thick branch above her head. Mr. Whiskers did look perfectly content to stay up in the tree all day. He was complacently licking his white paw, and purring softly. Still Deanna could not shake her disappointment; she really wanted to climb that tree. Deep inside herself, deep enough that she hoped her mother would not hear, she whispered; {Daddy would have let me climb the tree.}  
  
Apparently, she did not bury the comment deep enough. Her mother whirled around and faced her daughter, her expression such a complex mixture of emotion that the nine-year-old could not even begin to decipher it.  
  
Lwaxana knelt in the grass, her dress completely forgotten, and put her hands on Deanna's shoulders. "Yes, he probably would have," Lwaxana spoke aloud. Since Ian Troi's death, nearly two years ago, the two of them rarely communicated vocally. The sound of her mother's seldom-used but rich voice, comforted the younger Troi. "I wish he could be here to help you climb that tree dear, but he's not, and I'm very sorry for that." They stayed like that for a moment, holding each other's gaze. Deanna wishing she could wipe the grief off her Mother's face, Lwaxana wishing she could do the same.  
  
The elder Troi smiled, put one perfectly manicured finger on Deanna's nose, and made a beeping sound. Despite the fact that Deanna considered herself to old for such childish amusements, her mother's actions still made her giggle.  
  
"Let's go get that snack," Lwaxana said as she stood up and took Deanna's hand again. Deanna nodded, causing her blue-black curls to bounce around her shoulders. The two of them made their way across the expansive gardens of the Troi mansion. Deanna was watching a bee make lazy circles around the Chameleon roses and hyacinth that her father had planted years ago, when her mother broke her concentration.  
  
"Little One, do you understand how important this ceremony is that we're going to today?" The elder Troi looked at her daughter then answered her own question. "It is a celebration of the great awakening, when the first of our people came into their telepathic powers. That is when the Thirteen Houses were formed. Each House can trace their lineage back to the first telepaths on our planet. This ceremony is sacred for us. It is a time when we join our minds together and experience harmony, and balance with each other, and all that we are." Lwaxana glanced at her daughter, and when she was sure the girl was still paying attention, she continued.  
  
"It is hard to connect with one another in this way, and it takes a lot out of us, but the experience is beautiful and well worth the difficulty. This will be your first time participating in this ceremony, and I want you to understand what it is all about." She stopped and faced Deanna. "Soon you will begin your own awakening, you may already be feeling the first stirrings of it and not even know it yet. You are a Daughter of the Fifth House, it is important you understand your heritage. Do you understand?"  
  
Deanna nodded quickly. {I think I do,} she said, reverting to telepathic communication. She had spent several weeks listening to her instructors describe the ceremony in vague terms. Though she understood the historical significance of the ceremony, she still was not sure what the ceremony itself was going to be like.  
  
{Good, now let's go back to the house. We might have time for some hot coco before we have to leave.}  
  
*****  
  
Unknown to the people of Betazed, three cloaked Romulan ships were preparing to enter their sector of space.  
  
"We are approaching their security grid sub-commander."  
  
Sub commander Nevic, straightened in his command chair on the *Krocton*. "What is the status of their security grid?" he asked Tulk, his over-eager operations officer.  
  
"They are using a gravitic sensor net," Tulk turned to his commanding officer with a ghost of a smile on his thin lips. "The technology is at least ten years out of date."  
  
'Just like the reports said,' Nevic thought. 'Like ripe papalla fruit ready for the picking.' A slow satisfied smile spread across his angular features.  
  
"Enter the codes to shut down the sensors," he commanded.  
  
He watched as Tulk bent over his console, punching in the codes provided by their informant. He could feel the anticipation twisting his gut. The thrill of battle pounded against his ears with every beat of his heart.  
  
"The sensor net has fallen." Tulk's voice, pitched higher than normal and sounding relieved, cut through the war drums sounding in Nevic's head.  
  
"Excellent. Proceed on course to Betazed."  
  
****  
  
Deanna twirled in front of the full-length gilded mirror watching her pale pink skirt swish around her legs. She liked the iridescent material that caught the light and caused the pink of her dress to look like the inside of a seashell. She stopped spinning; enjoying the moment of vertigo, and inspected the small shimmering tiara, her mother had placed atop her dark curls.  
  
'I look like a princess,' she thought as she remembered the fairytales her father used to tell her. She missed the way her father told stories. His tales always included a beautiful, smart princess; named Deanna of course. Her mother never did that. All of Lwaxana's stories were about the Thirteen Houses, or the old myths from their home planet. Or worse yet, about Lwaxana herself and her youthful exploits.  
  
In truth, she tended to tune her mother out when she started telling these old legends. Lwaxana told the stories with the same airy, mystical voice her philosophy teachers used when lecturing on the symbolism of the Thirteen Gods. They just did not capture her imagination. Every tale had a lesson to teach, and sometimes she missed her father's frivolous stories. Besides the fairytales, there were also the westerns, Deanna's personal favorites.  
  
{Little One, it is time to go,} Lwaxana said as she came down the grand staircase to the foyer. Deanna looked up at her mother, momentarily awed by her. Lwaxana wore a floor length, blue dress with delicate crystal beads embroidered on it. When the beads hit the light they caused hundreds of miniature rainbow to form all around the elder Troi, it was a breathtaking effect. Lwaxana looked as if a special star was shining down only for her.  
  
{Are you ready?} she asked her daughter.  
  
{Yes mother.} Mr. Homm, their manservant, came in the foyer and helped both of them settle lightweight cloaks on their shoulders to fend off the chill of night.  
  
The two Troi women walked out into the dusky light and set off across their gardens toward the city of Rashual. The sun hovered over the horizon, casting orange and saffron light across the sky. The heady fragrance of tropical blooms floating on the breeze caused Deanna's nose to twitch. She followed her mother out of their yard and onto the tree lined path that led to the city.  
  
Deanna was rarely allowed out of the house during this time of the day. She soaked up all the sights, sounds, and smells of twilight with the wonder only a child could produce. She listened intently to the birds, singing their evening lullabies. Then watched, fascinated as the night- blooming flowers, that nestled the side of the path, began to open their midnight blue petals. She wished she could linger long enough to see what they looked like when they opened all the way, but her mother's gentle and insistent tug on her hand kept her moving. Deanna gave up trying to stall her mother, and decided to ask her a question that had been bothering her for several days.  
  
{Mother, what does the word Istra mean?} Lwaxana paused and looked down at her daughter, a crease of concern crossing her forehead.  
  
{Where did you hear that word?}  
  
{Kylia, a girl at school, said I would never be a full telepath because I was an Istra. She said she felt sorry for me. What does it mean?} Lwaxana continued walking, and did not answer her daughter. Deanna was resigning herself to the fact that she would never get an answer, when her mother stopped again and looked down at her.  
  
{It is not a nice word Little One. The closest translation of it is half-breed. It is a word from a time in our history that was not pleasant. I want you to promise me that you will never use it again.}  
  
Deanna nodded absently. Her mind was awhirl with the possibilities. She knew she was half-human. She understood that she may never have the same abilities that her mother did, but it had never occurred to her that someone would call her names because of it.  
  
They continued walking the path. Deanna forgot about her earlier fascination with the flowers, and concentrated on the puzzle of the word Istra. She mouthed the strange word quietly, feeling it roll off her tongue in a fluid motion.  
  
They crested a hill and paused to look down at the city sprawled below them. The spiked towers of the Temple of Rashual gleamed golden in the fading light. The city was a marvel of beauty and grace. Each building and street was designed for its ease of use as well as aesthetic value. Countless courtyards, gardens, and parks dotted the city, lending themselves to the groups of people who gathered there. The only thing that marred the beauty of the vista below them was the squat, boxy Federation embassy that housed the officers and diplomats stationed on Betazed. The embassy sat on the edge of town looking garish in comparison to the Betazed architecture. Lwaxana was about to continue down the hill when Deanna's voice stopped her.  
  
"Mother, is it a bad thing that I am part human?" she spoke aloud. Lwaxana looked down at her daughter's trusting face.  
  
'So angelic, and innocent,' she thought. 'How do you explain to a child the prejudice and ignorance of others?' For the second time that day, she squatted down in front of her daughter.  
  
"Do you think it's a bad thing?" she asked. Deanna's brow wrinkled in childish contemplation.  
  
After a few moments, she answered. "No, daddy was human, and he was nice. He told good stories, he smelled like the outside, and he always smiled. I think that's good." Lwaxana smiled sadly and touched her daughter's porcelain cheek.  
  
"I think so too. As long as you are happy with who you are no one else matters, Little One." With that, she stood, took her daughter's hand, and continued down the path.  
  
****  
  
"We must make our first strike here," Tulk pointed to a spot on the 3- D map that hovered over the conference table. "This is the most densely populated area on the planet. All of the government buildings are housed in this city, as well as the Federation embassy. A few well placed shots and the entire government will crumble."  
  
Nevic leaned back in his chair, studying the map. 'This is almost too easy,' he thought. 'They have placed all of their leaders in one city, one great big target.' He noted on the map the location of every important building, there was an impressive temple, the embassy, the government seat, all spread out before him, begging to be conquered like a weak woman.  
  
He leaned forward and pointed to the Federation embassy. "We make our first attack here. We will wipe out any Federation resistance with one phaser shot. Then here," he pointed to the large government building, "then we the hit the temple. I understand a good portion of the population will be there for some religious ceremony."  
  
"That is correct sir," Patahk, his second in command answered. "According to intelligence several thousand people attend the ceremony."  
  
"Good, the more mayhem we produce the harder it will be for them to resist. When the phasers and torpedoes have done their job, we transport to the surface and take control of whatever is left."  
  
****  
  
Deanna looked up, and up, and up, toward the glass ceiling of the Temple of Rashual. The inside of the temple was circular, with a spiral staircase that wound its way up to the top of the temple. Rooms and hallways leading into other parts of the temple branched off the staircase, leaving the center open to the view of the starry sky coming from the glass ceiling. Candlelight cast a warm glow over the virginal white stone walls, causing them to take on a reddish hue.  
  
She let out the breath she forgot she was holding, and looked around her at all the people crowding into the first floor. People were even standing on the stairs, looking down onto the open receiving hall. Deanna had never seen so many people together in all her life. People of every size, shape, and coloring crowded around her. The smell of clashing perfume and incense, and the sound of so many bodies shuffling about made it hard to concentrate. She caught pieces of telepathic conversations as she passed. Most Betazed children were capable of telepathic communication from a young age; it was not always easy for Deanna to hear the inner voice of others, especially if they were not in her immediate family. However, she could still hear most of the telepathic mummers and gossip circulating the room.  
  
Her mother kept a firm grasp on her daughter's hand as she made her way through the throng of people. The crowd parted in front of her, her stature screaming of her importance, while she remained dignified and quiet. Deanna marveled at her mother's commanding presence. Lwaxana had a way of turning every eye her way, and dominating any room.  
  
In short order, they made it to a raised platform in the middle of the congregation. There were already several women standing on the platform, some lighting the candles that circled the dais, others milled about inspecting the ceremonial cloths draped over the stone alter. From her elevated position, Deanna could see more of the crowd. Nervousness whirled in her stomach at the sight of them. She could even make out a few Starfleet officers in their dress uniforms mingling with the conflux of people.  
  
{Deanna,} her mother said, pulling her from the side of the platform. Lwaxana led her to one of the young women lighting the candles on the dais. {Melisande I would like you to meet my daughter, Deanna. Deanna, this is one of the priestesses of the Temple of Rashual,} Lwaxana said, making introductions between the two. Melisande was a tall slender woman, with delicate features, pale creamy skin, and sharp violet eyes, all framed by hair the color of an onyx. In contrast to the other women in the temple, she wore simple white robes belted at her waist.  
  
{Hello Deanna, it is nice to meet you. I understand this is your first time at the temple.} Melisande's voice sounded in her head, warm and smooth like chocolate syrup. Deanna nodded, feeling self-conscious in front of this woman. {Well this is my first time in this ceremony as a full priestess, so we have something in common.} Melisande said with a friendly smile that broke through Deanna's shyness.  
  
{You are going to help Melisande this evening Little One. Would you like that?}  
  
Deanna nodded emphatically. {I would like to help.}  
  
{Good, I could use all the help I can get.} Melisande offered her hand and Deanna tentatively reached out and grasped Melisande's fingers.  
  
{I will see you after the ceremony.} Lwaxana planted a small kiss on her forehead, and made her way back to the center of the dais.  
  
{So here is what we are going to do Deanna. Do you see all the candles surrounding the platform? I need your help lighting all of those. You take the shorter ones, and I will do the taller ones.}  
  
{All right.} Deanna took the small lighting devise that Melisande handed her. They worked quietly for a few moments, before Deanna's curiosity got the better of her. {What does it feel like Melisande?}  
  
{What does what feel like?}  
  
{The ceremony. What happens? Do you really connect with everyone else on the whole planet? Will I be able to feel it?} Deanna rambled, her job of lighting candles forgotten for the moment.  
  
Melisande paused and looked at the child with patient amusement. {Well, to answer your first question, it is the most beautiful experience I have ever had. It is like being able to see the delicate thread of your life, woven with the threads of others.} She paused, and her eyes seemed far away. Her face glowed with the remembered feeling of connection. She shook herself from her thoughts and continued. {Nothing can ever compare to that feeling.  
  
{For your second question, we connect to everyone on the planet who is performing the ceremony. You see, the elders of the temple and the daughters of the Thirteen Houses will enter a trance, and anyone else meditating in the same way will be included. There are the people here in the temple, but people also gather in the city parks and courtyards. And in the cities of Namarre, Dalriada, and Eshmun, there are temples performing the same ceremony. All of us will bind our minds together, only for a moment, and celebrate the great awakening of our people.}  
  
Melisande moved along to the next candle and Deanna followed behind. After the candles were lit, Deanna repeated her last question.  
  
{Will I be able to feel it?} It was the question she really wanted to know. She wanted to tell the priestess about the word Istra, that she was a half-breed, and may never be able to do more than communicate telepathically with other Betazoids. However, she bit her tongue, remembering her promise not to use the word.  
  
Melisande smiled down at her. {That is the beautiful thing about this ceremony; even those who have not had their awakening can feel it. Not in the same way, but they feel something. It is even said that a Betazoid light years away from the planet can feel the effects; if they concentrate hard enough.} She gestured to the crowd. {You see the Federation diplomats out there. They are human, and even they will feel something stir inside them. A great sense of peace and belonging. Their experience depends on how open their mind is to the idea of things greater than they are.}  
  
Deanna chewed on this new information while they finished lighting the candles. When the last one was lit, Melisande surveyed the room and smiled; satisfied that everything was at it should be. She looked back down at her little helper.  
  
{It is almost time.}  
  
****  
  
"Full stop," Nevic called. He stood from his chair and stepped closer to the view port. The blue-green planet of Betazed swirled below them.  
  
He loved this moment; the calm that settled over him before the attack. He wanted to savor every second of the conquest that lay before them.  
  
He thought of the people on the planet below; blissfully unaware of the death he was about to bring them. He had studied these people, he always studied those he was about to conquer. He thought of their beliefs in unity, and peace. Their pride and their feeling of superiority. They fancied themselves above other species. Above war, greed, ambition, and vengeance, but he would teach them otherwise. No one was above such things.  
  
No one.  
  
"Prepare the targeting systems," he said never breaking his gaze from the planet.  
  
His planet.  
  
****  
  
Deanna watched from her spot on the edge of the dais as the priestesses of the Temple of Rashual stepped onto the platform. Melisande stood beside her; since she was a new initiate, her part in the ceremony was done. Now the elders of the temple and the decedents of the Thirteen Houses would begin the ceremony.  
  
Deanna's eyes lingered on one of the older women. She wore the same white robes as the other priestesses, but a large medallion hanging from her neck set her apart from the others. The medallion was gold, set with thirteen different gems ranging from the deepest black to shimmering white.  
  
Deanna remembered from her history classes that each stone represented the Thirteen Houses, and the woman wearing it was the head priestess, the woman who bound all the Houses together. {Necthana is her name,} Melisande mentally whispered, seeing her young companion's fascination with the head priestess.  
  
Necthana was tall and regal, at least a head taller than anyone else on the dais. Her silver hair was drawn into an elaborate coil on top of her head. Though there were faint lines across her forehead, and deeper set laugh lines around her eyes, a trace of her youthful beauty clung to her. She carried in her long, slender hands a simple wooden bowl filled with a powdery substance. She set the bowl atop the alter with reverence.  
  
{The bowl is filled with special incense that aids the joining of the minds,} Melisande answered Deanna's unasked question.  
  
Suddenly Necthana's strong voice carried throughout the room, bringing all idle chitchat, and shuffling to a halt. "Out of respect for our non-telepathic visitors we will speak the scared words aloud." She turned to the bowl of incense on the alter and spoke aloud the ancient language.  
  
Deanna listened in awe as the words were released from the priestess's mouth like birds being set free from their cages. She understood none of it, but the sheer beauty of the language did not escape her.  
  
{She is asking for guidance from our ancestors during the joining,} Melisande translated for her telepathically while Necthana continued speaking outloud. {She prays to the Goddess Rashual, whose love we revere above all others, to lead us to the path of wisdom and understanding. In the name of the Thirteen Gods and the ancestors of the Thirteen Houses, guide our weary bodies and unworthy minds to Wisdom.}  
  
With that, Nechthana held her hand, palm up, over the bowl of incense. With a flourish, and a bright spark of light that drew a murmur from the crowd, a small flame appeared in the palm of her hand.  
  
Deanna knew it was some sort of trick, some hidden device that allowed a fire to burn in her hand without causing the priestess any pain. Despite that, her sense of wonder was not abated.  
  
Necthana continued speaking the sacred words aloud and Melisande translated for Deanna. {With this spark, the spark of wisdom, love, and peace, we ignite the fires that will light our way in the dark.}  
  
Necthana cast the flame into the bowl of incense. Immediately a thick column of fragrant smoke shot up into the air.  
  
"Let the joining begin."  
  
****  
  
"Sir the Federation embassy has been targeted," Tulk called from his station.  
  
"Disengage cloak and prepare to fire on my mark."  
  
****  
  
The cloying sweet smoke filled her nose, drawing her deeper into its spell. She could feel it, a slight tingling presence in the back of her head, a stirring of something indescribable inside her chest.  
  
She felt an ache; a deep, yawning need she had never known was there, slowly filling with love and joy. Completion, beautiful completion.  
  
****  
  
"Never trust a society run by women," Ensign Gary Lockwood mumbled as he looked out the window of the Federation embassy. His view was of a small park area where two dozen Betazoids stood in a circle holding hands. "Look at them." He turned to his companion, Ensign Deset, and gestured to the window. "They're standing in a circle, holding hands, and praying. This whole planet gives me the creeps."  
  
"They're not praying, they're meditating," Deset corrected.  
  
He walked away from the window with a look of disgust and plopped down in a nearby chair. "Praying, meditating, what's the difference?"  
  
"There's a big difference." Deset could explain how the Betazoids did not have Gods per se, but he doubted Lockwood would appreciate the subtlety of Betazoid philosophy. Besides that, he was trying to read, and he hated interruptions when he was trying to read.  
  
"Just yesterday I was in the market. Must have been a hundred people there, and it was so quite I could hear crickets," Lockwood said.  
  
"They don't have crickets on Betazed," Deset said, barely glancing up from his novel.  
  
"You know what I mean. I've been here three months and I'm ready to get the hell out of here. I'm sick of hanging around telepaths. My mind is like an open book to these people."  
  
"Yeah an open book, 'See spot run,' is about as deep as you go," Deset quipped. He put down the padd he was reading with a frustrated sigh. He had just read the same paragraph three times in a row; Lockwood would not shut-up.  
  
"How do you stand it here?" Lockwood asked, ignoring Deset's snide remark. "You've been here for over a year, don't they drive you crazy?"  
  
Deset leaned forward on the computer console and looked at the young blond man in front of him. "No they don't drive me crazy. I like it here. They are friendly, open people; you just have to get over the telepath thing. Besides, they consider it rude to delve into someone's mind without permission."  
  
'Not that anyone would touch your mind with a stick,' he thought to himself. Deset gave the computer readouts a casual look. They were supposed to be monitoring the security grid that protected this section of space. The grid kept track of all the ships that got close to the planet.  
  
He looked back at Lockwood, and was about to say something when he realized the readings he had just looked at were wrong. He went back to the view screen, punched a few keys, and then smacked the console.  
  
"Son-of-a-bitch," Deset cursed. "The damn grid is down again."  
  
Lockwood shrugged his broad shoulders. "Big deal, it goes down every month. You would think these guys would get a security net that actually works."  
  
"Still, procedure says we have to run sensor sweeps until the grid comes back up." Deset moved to another station and punched in the codes that would begin sensor sweeps around the planet. It was a back-up system for the gravitic sensor. Should the grid ever fail (which it did frequently) sensor sweeps would take over and warn the station of any approaching ships. Not that he was expecting anything. The great thing about Betazed was that nothing ever happened.  
  
"Nothing ever happens here," Lockwood whined. "This must be the most boring planet in the galaxy."  
  
Deset ignored him and kept his eyes locked on the readouts the sensors were giving him. There was a blip, a big blip, on the screen. "Is there supposed to be any Federation ships here today?" he asked Lockwood.  
  
"Hell no! No starship captain in their right mind would come here."  
  
"Well there are three pretty big ships out there, and they aren't answering the computer's hails." He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. 'Probably nothing,' he thought.  
  
Lockwood stood up and looked at the view screen over Deset's shoulder. "Run the identification program, see what kind of ship it is," he suggested.  
  
"I'm not stupid," Deset snarled. "I already started it. Give it one second and we should have an answer." Both men watched the green light that signified the sensors were comparing the unidentified ship against all the ships in the database.  
  
"It's taking too long," Lockwood grumbled. "These systems are too old." As soon as the words left his mouth the screen flashed red, and two words stared at them from the screen. Romulan Warbird.  
  
"Holy shit," Lockwood whispered.  
  
Deset turned quickly, knocking Lockwood away, and stumbled toward the emergency alert system on the other side of the room. He was going too fast and his hip smacked into the sharp edge of the console, he cursed fluidly and punched in the security code. Instantly the room filled with a high-pitched wail of alarm.  
  
That was the last sound Deset and Lockwood heard. Before the roar of the ceiling falling in on them drowned out everything else.  
  
****  
  
"Fire," Nevic yelled. He watched the red beam of destruction cut across the blackness of space and slice through the atmosphere of Betazed.  
  
"Sir the embassy has set off an alert. They must have detected us," Tulk said.  
  
"It doesn't matter now. We are here and there's nothing they can do about it."  
  
****  
  
The ground was shaking. Was it supposed to shake? Deanna tried to bury herself deeper in the blanket of joy covering her. She wanted to stay in this moment forever.  
  
Just as quickly as the sense of completion had come over her, another feeling sliced across her mind like a blade.  
  
Fear. Not her fear. Someone else's.  
  
The ground shook again, and this time she screamed out. The haze that had covered her brain was quickly clearing. Something was wrong.  
  
Deanna looked around her, seeing others coming to the same realization. She heard someone shouting for order.  
  
She glanced at Melisande beside her. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back; she trembled, and made a whimpering sound. Deanna could feel it. A great sense of dread, and fear settled over the temple. The ground shook for the third time.  
  
Then came the pain.  
  
****  
  
"Sub-Commander, the embassy has been destroyed. Sensors report massive causalities in and around the building."  
  
Nevic's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. The Federation fools had fallen easily. 'It is no more than they deserve for allying themselves with such a weak race,' he thought.  
  
"Target the government buildings at the center of the city."  
  
****  
Loud, wailing sirens pierced Deanna's ears. The pain was becoming more than she could bear, and her stomach heaved in an attempt to empty its contents. She was sheltered from the worst of the barrage of telepathic communication. She could hear the people scream out, some in pain, some praying for divine intervention, others calling for their loved ones.  
  
Because she was only half Betazoid and had not had her awakening, she couldn't feel the thoughts or emotions behind those calls. Others were not as lucky. Screams echoed around the cavernous room, reverberating in Deanna's ears. She covered them, but it did not block the sounds of pain that burned into her mind. Her knees turned to jelly, her head throbbed, but she kept her feet.  
  
She scanned the dais looking for her mother, but all she saw were the fallen bodies of the priestesses and Daughters of the Houses. Much the same was happening on the floor below the dais. At least half of the telepaths had fallen unconscious to the floor. Leaving only the children, the Federation ambassadors, and a few others still standing.  
  
She looked up to the glass ceiling of the temple, and saw something that made the fear knot tighter in her stomach. A red light slashing an open wound across the black sky, closely followed by a shake of the ground.  
  
"We're under attack," she heard a Federation Ambassador yell. This statement caused panic among those still conscious.  
  
She heard people begin to call out for their loved ones. Heard some people debating about whether it would be best to stay in the temple or leave.  
  
"This temple is the best structure to be in," she heard someone say. Others agreed, but some argued the point. The temple became a symphony of noise both verbal and telepathic. She heard several of the Federation Ambassadors attempting to make contact with the embassy, to no avail. She did her best to block the noise and knelt beside Melisande.  
  
"Melisande wake-up, please wake-up." She shook the woman.  
  
"Little one," she heard faintly. She looked up to see Lwaxana trying to stand from the pile of fallen bodies. She was using the large stone alter to support her shaky weight. Her face was drawn against the mental assault she was receiving.  
  
"Mama," She left Melisande's side and ran the rest of the way to her mother. Lwaxana took her daughter in her arms, cradling her for a moment against her chest.  
  
"What's happening? Melisande won't wake up. Why do I hurt? Why are they screaming? Please make them stop screaming."  
  
Lwaxana took hold of her daughter's chin, holding it firmly in her hand and forcing Deanna to make eye contact. "Remember what I taught you Little One, about blocking communication." Deanna nodded slowly. "Find your center, push everything else away. Build your wall brick by brick." Lwaxana's voice was hypnotic, helping Deanna block out the sounds of the others in her head. After a few moments, the child's features relaxed a bit.  
  
"Good. Now listen closely. You have to get out of here. Run home as fast as you can and do not stop for anything. Mr. Homm will protect you when you get there."  
  
Deanna's eyes became huge with fear. "I'm not going anywhere without you."  
  
"Little One, listen to me. You have to go now. I will be right behind you, I promise. I'm just going to try to wake Melisande and the others up, okay?" Lwaxana kept a firm hold on her daughter's chin, flooding all the love and support she could through the child's mind. Finally, Deanna nodded.  
  
"Now go, and remember don't stop for anything, keep going no matter what you see or what happens." Lwaxana released her chin and helped Deanna stand up. "Go on, I'll be right behind you."  
  
Deanna looked down at the bodies of the women littering the dais and felt fear grip her heart again. Necthana's blank, foggy eyes stared up at her. Her face was contorted in pain, and Deanna wondered if she was dead.  
  
"No, she's not dead. They're just overloaded," Lwaxana said. "Now go quickly." She gave Deanna a gentle shove toward the edge of the platform. "I promise I'll be right behind you."  
  
****  
  
Nevic listened to the reports flooding in from the other two ships. So far they had met no resistance.  
  
"Sub-Commander, the Government buildings are destroyed," Tulk called out.  
  
"Excellent, proceed with phase three. Target all phasers on the temple."  
  
****  
  
Lwaxana watched her daughter's tiny form weave in and out of the occupants of the room, and disappear between the taller adults. Almost everyone had opted to stay in the Temple, thinking themselves safe in the structure. For some reason she could not explain Lwaxana did not agree. She wanted to get as far away from the temple and the city as possible.  
  
First, she had to try to wake the others. She knelt beside Melisande, and shook the young woman. She could feel her trying to untie her mind from the tangled webs it was trapped in. Lwaxana could feel it too.  
  
The screams of pain. Worse, the life slipping away from countless bodies, their souls being cast on the wind. Because of the joining, the sensation was even keener than it would have been under normal circumstances. It was like having pieces of your mind ripped away little by little. She shook off her thoughts and concentrated all of her energy on the priestess lying beside her.  
  
She used her own mind like a torch, lighting the way out of the darkness for Melisande. Soon her eyes fluttered, and she moaned.  
  
"Slowly dear, slowly. Keep your shields up against them. Ignore their pleas," she said, trying to keep her voice controlled and even like she had done for Deanna. After a moment, Melisande sat up.  
  
"What's happening?" Melisande put her head in her hand and let out another moan.  
  
"There is no time to explain dear. You have to get out of here."  
  
Melisande ignored her, large tears began to squeeze from her violet eyes and she shuddered. "They're hurting! We have to help them. Oh Gods! The pain." Her hands shot out suddenly and grabbed the front of Lwaxana's gown. "Help them," she hissed between clenched teeth.  
  
"We don't have time for this," she said extraditing herself from the other woman's strong grasp. "Listen to me, you have to push them away, or they will suck you in again. You need to get out of here. I need you to go find Deanna, go help her get back home. Can you do that? Can you help Deanna?" she enunciated every word, hoping to catch the priestess' attention.  
  
Melisande's eyes focused on her face. "Deanna, help Deanna."  
  
"Right, can you do that?" She hoped giving Melisande something to focus on would help her block the pain, and it seemed to be working. Melisande nodded and began to stand, trembled, but managed to get to her feet unaided. "Deanna just left. Go find her and help her get home. Wait for me there. I'll try to wake the others," Lwaxana's voice was strong, leaving no room for argument.  
  
"I can do it," Melisande replied. Her voice sounded steadier, and her eyes had lost their glazed look.  
  
"Good, now go."  
  
****  
  
She was losing her way. Her world was a jumble of sensations, most alien, driving all proper thought from her head. She ran.  
  
The smells of burning assaulted her nose, the sharp twinge of grasses and trees smoldering, the chemical taste of metals and synthetic materials melting, and another smell she could not place. Some new smell that made her stomach roll in revulsion. But she kept running.  
  
A thick ash fell from the sky like lifeless, dull snow. The ash glowed eerily as the red flames of fire touched it. It seemed everything was on fire, buildings, transport vehicles, even shrubbery shriveled in the consuming flame. She ran harder.  
  
She could hear her footsteps muffled by the ash that covered the pavement. The footsteps of others, both in front and behind her, setting a rhythm for her running.  
  
Wisps of telepathic communication snagged at her mind. 'Darin, where are you? Darin!' 'Mommy, please wake-up! I'm scared. Why won't you wake up?' 'Fire! Oh gods the fire! It's closer. It's getting closer.'  
  
She pushed them away. She ran. Until an ache formed in her side, and she was begging for a breath of clean air. Her lungs felt squeezed, her throat raw, she coughed and tasted blood. Still she ran.  
  
****  
  
"The temple is targeted."  
  
"Fire."  
  
****  
  
"No, please let me go. I have to find my husband," a woman screamed from inside the protective embrace of a large Federation Ambassador.  
  
"Miss, it's not safe out there. We need to stay in here until the rescue team comes," the Ambassador said while keeping a tight hold on the struggling woman.  
  
"He's calling for me. Please just let me go. He's calling." She collapsed, exhausted on the man's broad chest heaving deep sobs that shook her tiny frame.  
  
"In the name of the Gods let that woman go," Lwaxana said, unable to tolerate the screaming and sobbing any longer.  
  
Those that had not left, or regained consciousness, stood in the center of the room. There were only a few dozen left, most opting to leave and find their families. Lwaxana moved from body to body trying to revive those still swimming in the pain.  
  
"Let her go," she repeated to the Ambassador.  
  
"It's not safe out there," he said in a deep baritone. He might have been a handsome man, if fear were not distorting his features. In another time, another place, she might have flirted shamelessly with him, but not now.  
  
"It's not going to be safe in here for much longer," was all she said. She turned back to Necthana's limp form and continued trying to revive the woman. She was vaguely aware that the man let the woman go; she could hear her muttering her husband's name as she ran out the front door. Lwaxana pushed all this away focusing everything she was on the priestesses in front of her.  
  
She did not even realize it when the first phaser shot hit the temple.  
  
****  
  
Deanna stumbled, falling face first on the ashy ground. She inhaled the powdery ash into her nose and mouth, clogging her throat with the foul tasting substance. Her body was wracked by coughs and eventually she was forced to spit out a gray and blood tinged lump.  
  
After a moment, the hacking tapered off. She began to stand, and after several false attempts finally regained her feet. Just as she took her first stumbling steps forward, a terrible feeling hit her.  
  
From somewhere outside herself, but very near to her soul, a great spasm of pain ripped through her mind. She fell again, her knees hit the unforgiving pavement, and a strangled cry forced its way from her raw throat.  
  
Her mother was dying. Deanna could feel her life ebbing slowly away.  
  
****  
  
The grand staircase that circled the Temple of Rashual fell in great clumps raining stone onto the open floor below. Lwaxana looked up from the slack face of Necthana just in time to see a large piece of the ornately carved stone falling toward her.  
  
She made a futile attempt to dive out of the way, but only managed to keep the hunk of rock from falling directly on her head. Instead, the rock caught her in the middle of her body. The weight of the stone pinned her to the equally hard floor, crushing her between the two.  
  
****  
  
"Sir the temple is withstanding the phaser fire," Tulk said.  
  
Nevic looked over Tulk's shoulder, scanning the information on the computer screen. Sure enough, the temple was still standing after three direct hits with the phasers.  
  
"Well then," he said as he stepped back to his command chair and made himself comfortable. "I suppose we should bring out something a little larger to take it down. Prepare torpedoes and fire when ready."  
  
****  
  
{Mother,} Deanna called. She stayed unmoving, kneeling on the soot- blanketed ground. {Mother.} Deanna cradled her abdomen against the throbbing pain growing there.  
  
After what seemed like an eternity, she heard a soft whisper in reply.  
  
{Little one} Deanna had to strain to hear her mother's voice, but it was there. Like a flickering candle flame, gusting in the wind, dim but still able to guide through the darkness. {Little one, I am here. I love you, dear; never forget I love you.}  
  
{I love you too mommy,} she whispered, both aloud and telepathically. She tried to stand, but her legs seemed disconnected from her body, and she couldn't make them work.  
  
{I love you.} Deanna repeated, though she was not sure if her mother could hear her anymore. She seemed to be moving farther away, the loving presence that was a part of Deanna's mind, getting smaller.  
  
Until finally it was gone.  
  
Deanna felt an emptiness invade her. A part of herself she didn't even know was there was gone. A wave of blackness flooded her, and she welcomed it, with open arms, she welcomed the mind-numbing darkness.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
How long had it been? How long had she been trapped in this half world listening to the cries of strangers? She was tired, drained, but most of all she wanted her mother. Where was her mother? She had searched and searched with her mind, waded through the telepathic cries to find her mother's voice, but she never heard it.  
  
The only thing she found to give her comfort was a simple song. A song from another lifetime, a song her father used to sing her. Her father was gone now too. Everyone was gone, but she still had the song. The gentle melody floated through her head. The sound of her father's rich tenor rang in her ears.  
  
Down in the valley, the valley so low Hang your head over, hear the wind blow Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow.  
  
She could smell her father's cologne, and feel his strong arms encircling her. As long as she stayed here, in the place where she could hear the song, she was safe. To leave this place was to feel an emptiness she could not even fathom.  
  
Sometimes she heard the voices of others, people from the outside world. A gentle woman's voice she vaguely recognized. She knew the woman was concerned about her. The woman should not be worried; Deanna was safe. As long as she could hear her father's voice, she was safe.  
  
Writing this letter, with but three line Answer my question; will you be mine Will you be mine dear, will you be mine Answer my question; will you be mine.  
  
Someone was moving her, trying to wash the grime from her face. The woman was talking again. Telling her they were leaving. Deanna did not care. She was staying here, in the warm place where her father sang to her, and her mother's perfume permeated the air. This was where she belonged.  
  
Nothing burned here, nothing smelled like roasting flesh. No one left her here.  
  
Write me a letter; send it by mail Send it in care of the Birmingham jail Birmingham jail, dear, Birmingham jail Send it in care of the Birmingham jail.  
  
She was in a new place she could tell. She was laying on something hard, and she could feel the vibrations of large engines humming through her body. Sweaty unwashed bodies cramped around her. She burrowed herself deeper into her half world. Whatever was going on, she did not care. So long as she could stay here.  
  
Roses love sunshine, violets love dew Angels in Heaven know I love you. Know I love you dear, know I love you Angels in heaven know I love you.  
  
The thrumming of the engines had stopped. She was moving again. Some place dry and hot, some place that was not her home. Part of her wanted to open her eyes and see it. Another part, the much stronger part, did not want to know. Her father's voice soothed her, and she allowed the notes of the song to swirl around her mind.  
  
Down in the valley, the valley so low Hang your head over hear the wind blow Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow Hang your head over hear the wind blow.  
  
**** Dr. Katherine Pulaski looked around her makeshift clinic with a mixture of satisfaction and distress. She took in the bare concrete floors, the sparsely decorated walls, and the two dozen beds, half filled with patients. She had been on Jaros III for over three months, and each day wore on her resolve to stay like a stone wearing down the sharpness of a blade. Jaros III was a hard place to live, not just because of the unrelenting climate, but also the people that inhabited the backwater planet.  
  
Jaros III was, at one time, an Earth colony. A place where the rugged frontiersmen chose to live. The colonists were separatists, who left Earth some fifty years ago to establish their own way of life, under their own rule. However, it did not turn out that way. The colony had fallen on hard times, drought, famine, and political bickering had reduced the group of proud settlers to disgruntled anarchists. On Jaros III, the people with the most weapon and muscle were the ones in charge. However, that was not even the half of it, because in addition to the humans there were the refuges.  
  
The war between the Federation and the Romulan Klingon alliance was on its third year, and nearly four billion people were without homes. As a result, many planetary governments refused to provide any more aid to the refugees, figuring the ones they had already taken in were plenty. Jaros III was one of the few places that had an open policy.  
  
Their unofficial motto; 'If you can stand to live here, you're welcome to it'.  
  
As a result, thousands of refugees crowded into the few inhabitable places on the planet. While the Bajorans were the biggest group of refugees, there was also the Ekosians, Acamarians, and countless others. A mixed pot of politics, religion, and culture that occasionally boiled over. That was how Dr. Katherine Pulaski found herself in her current situation.  
  
She was there, after taking a sabbatical from Starfleet, to help people. There was little to no medical care among these people. She came to Jaros III to fill that need, and while she knew she was doing everything in her power to help, sometimes it just wasn't enough.  
  
Her 'clinic' was really nothing more than an abandoned warehouse outfitted with a hodgepodge of medical equipment, and cots. It was not up to Federation standards, but it was more than these people had seen in a long time. 'They deserve better,' she thought.  
  
"Pondering the injustices of the universe again Kate?" Doctor Clemens asked Pulaski, with a trace of amusement. She turned around to fix the red-haired doctor with her cool blue eyes.  
  
"Yes I am," she sighed deeply and ran her fingers through her dark blonde curls. "These people need more than we have to give. Our funding won't hold out much longer, and finding volunteers in this day and age is no easy task." She picked up one of the data pads off the nurse's station and scanned the contents before tossing it back on the counter, frustrated.  
  
"You can't hold the universe up on your shoulders. You can only work on one patient at a time." Clemens placed a comforting hand on her arm and squeezed gently. "These people are grateful for whatever we have to give. They're not getting much help from anyone else."  
  
"So," she asked after a momentary pause. "Did you just come over here to cheer me up, or did you want something?"  
  
"Actually, I have a patient I need an opinion on." He glanced down at the data padd he was holding. "A nine year old Betazoid girl just got here this morning on a Zeliban trader's ship." Clemens started walking toward the far end of the room and Pulaski followed.  
  
"Betazoid huh?" she said absently. The Romulans overran the Betazed planet several weeks before. These people would be the first of the refugees to make their way to Jaros III.  
  
"Yeah, she doesn't look good. She has abrasions and bruises that are healing, a severe case of malnutrition, and a nasty lung infection from inhaling toxic ash, but the real killer is; she won't stop humming."  
  
Pulaski stopped in mid-stride, unsure if she had heard Clemens right. "Humming?"  
  
"Yeah you know, humming." He pressed his full lips together and made an imitation of the sound.  
  
"I know what it is. I just don't understand why you're talking to me about this."  
  
"Well I figured you could tell me what the song was," he said dryly. When she shot him an irritated look, he shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "Okay, I'm talking to you because the girl is catatonic, she doesn't respond to outside stimuli. Now, the woman with her says she has retreated into her meta-conscious mind, whatever the hell that is."  
  
"It's part of Betazoid physiology, it protects them from psychic trauma," she interrupted.  
  
"And that my friend is why I'm talking to you. I have not the first clue how to help the girl. I know nothing about Betazoids, and to make matters worse she's half-human. I hate working with cross species offspring; it throws everything out of whack."  
  
They arrived at a cot area, sectioned off for privacy. Clemens pulled back the curtain for her, and she was greeted by two very tired, dirty humanoids. The one that immediately drew her eye was the over seven- foot tall bald man, that seemed to take up all the space in the room. He bowed his head in greeting. Then there was the much smaller woman, she had long, dark hair that looked like it had not seen a brush in several days, and her pale features were tight with concern and exhaustion.  
  
"Hello, I'm Dr. Katherine Pulaski." She offered her hand, but quickly dropped it back down to her side when the young woman did not accept the gesture.  
  
"My name is Melisande, this is Mr. Homm, and this is Deanna," she said quietly, barely taking her eyes away from the girl lying on the bed.  
  
Sure enough, Pulaski could hear faint humming coming from the child, as she gently rocked her small body from side to side.  
  
Pulaski pulled a tricorder out of her lab coat and began running the instrument down the length of the girl's body, her frown deepening the longer she scanned. After repeating the scan a second time, she looked up into Melisande's considered face.  
  
"Are you her mother?"  
  
Melisande shook her head slowly, and whispered, "No, her mother is dead."  
  
"Are you related to her in anyway?" Pulaski asked.  
  
Melisande straightened in her chair. "I am a priestess of Rashual. All the people of Betazed are my sisters and brothers," she said with aristocratic authority  
  
"Well," Pulaski shrugged, "if you're claiming responsibility for her that's good enough for me." She put the tricorder back in her pocket and folded her hands in front of her. "How long has she been like this?"  
  
"Since I found her lying in the street during the Romulan invasion. I tried to bring her out of it, but she will not acknowledge me. She just keeps humming that song."  
  
Pulaski leaned back on her heels, one hand tucked thoughtfully under her chin. "Well the first thing we need to do is get her on nutritional shots to keep her strength up."  
  
"Already done," Clemens said.  
  
"I also want you to start a brain scan, concentrate on the para- cortex region of the brain. There might be some kind of damage that's causing her current condition."  
  
Clemens nodded his head and rushed through the curtains to complete her orders. Pulaski turned back to Melisande and the silent man. "I think if we give her a bit of time she'll come out of this on her own, I just want to make sure."  
  
Melisande nodded, "Thank you Doctor. We appreciate anything you can do." Pulaski let her detached doctor persona slip for a moment and smiled reassuringly.  
  
"Why don't we see if we can't find the two of you a place to clean up and something to eat. We might even have a change of clothes lying around somewhere." She narrowed her blue eyes at Homm, mentally measuring him. "You on the other hand might be a little hard to shop for."  
  
****  
  
An eight-year-old Bajoran girl watched the three adults move away from the section next to hers. She had heard them talking about the girl in the next bed and her curiosity was peeked. She had never seen a Betazoid before.  
  
She slid out of bed, being not to put much weight on her twisted ankle, and hobbled over to the curtain separating the beds. Through the thin material, she could see a small lump on the bed, and the distant sound of humming reached her ears.  
  
It took her a moment to find the part in the curtain; she cautiously peered through the slit to make sure the coast was clear. All she saw was a small, bony back and a ratty mop of black curls. She stepped the rest of the way through the partition.  
  
"Hey," she whispered, "Hey, are you awake." There was no reply, just the steady rise and fall of the girl's back, and the humming. She hobbled around the bed, and was shocked to see the girl's eyes were open, staring unseeing at the blue stripped pattern of the curtains that marked off her area.  
  
"Can you hear me?" She waved her hand in front of the girl's eyes, but the Betazoid did not even flinch. She thought for a moment of going back to her own bed, but for some reason she knew the girl could hear her. "I heard you were from Betazed. My mother said that the Romulans over- threw your government." She said as she sat on the edge of a chair. "My mom says the Romulans are.," she paused trying to remember the words, "oh yeah, 'blood thirsty, power hungry, pointy eared, bastards'." She liked the fell of the swear word on her tongue and smiled at how adult she was being.  
  
"So what are you in here for anyway? I twisted my ankle pretty bad when I was chasing some kids who kept calling me names. I got one of 'em real good, he won't be calling me a big baby anymore. I bloodied his nose." She looked down at her humming companion, leaning forward and placing her elbows on the side of the bed to support her head.  
  
"I heard what they said about your mother." She drew closer, close enough to feel the girl's warm breath on her face, and whispered. "My dad died a few months ago, on Bajor. I saw it. The Cardassians." She trailed off, unable to speak aloud what she had seen the Cardassians do to her father. She shuddered against the memory, and bit the inside of her cheek to keep the tears from spilling.  
  
"Mama says he's a martyr." She added mildly, trying to fill the silent moment. She looked closely at the face inches away from hers, noticing the dark, pupil-less eyes, the full lips, and delicate features.  
  
"You look kinda weak; you'll never survive around here." She heard the adults say that countless times about new refugees. It sounded like the grown-up thing to say. She felt suddenly bad for the girl lying there humming the same song repeatedly. She put one small hand on the stranger's shoulder. "Don't worry though; I'll look out for you. I heard them say your name was Deanna. My name is Ro, Ro Laren. It's nice to meet you Deanna."  
  
****  
  
Dr Pulaski leaned back in her chair kneading the tight muscles of her neck. She looked back at her computer screen with a grimace. The screen contained all the information from the battery of neurological tests ran on Deanna Troi. After hours of staring at the screen, hoping the answers would magically appear, she felt as if her eyes were beginning to cross. She had a good picture of what was wrong with the girl, she just had no idea how it happened or how to treat her.  
  
A young nurse stuck her head in the door. "There is someone here to see you doctor." Pulaski nodded, having a good idea of who it was.  
  
"Send her in Alice."  
  
She took a moment to clear her desk of the data pads and to compose herself. Just as she swooped the last pad into a drawer Melisande, Deanna's guardian, strode into the room.  
  
Pulaski was struck by the change in the woman. Just a few days ago she looked like the refugee she was, dirty, tired, and forlorn. Now she was clean, groomed, and wearing a simple white shift. Her back was straight, her shoulders back, and her face the picture of aristocratic authority. She had obviously been a woman of some power on her home planet, and she was drawing on that pride, that authority, to carry her through the loss of all that she knew. Even though the woman was young, no older than her early twenties by Pulaski's counting, wisdom and grace shown in her violet eyes.  
  
"Doctor," Melisande said with a graceful bow of her head. "You asked to see me?"  
  
"Please sit down," she waved her hand toward a chair on the other side of her cramped desk and waited for Melisande to settle herself before beginning. "The good news is I think I know what's wrong with Deanna."  
  
"And the bad news?"  
  
Pulaski leaned forward, folding her hands on top of the desk. "I'm not sure how to treat her." She allowed the information to sink in before turning the view screen on her desk toward Melisande so she could explain what was happening.  
  
"This is basically a map of Deanna's brain. This area here in red," she tapped her finger on the area she indicated, "it's the para-cortex region of her brain. On a child, and a half-human child at that, it shouldn't be this active. Her psilosynine levels are much higher than they should be for a girl of her age and genetic make-up."  
  
"What exactly does that mean doctor?"  
  
"To be honest, I don't know, but she's not the only one who's showing similar symptoms." Pulaski turned the computer screen back around and punched the button, calling up the information she wanted. "There were ten other Betazoids that transported here with you and out of those ten all but two showed minor damage to the telepathic lobe. Several of them complained of voices, telepathic cries. Their psilosynine levels were also very high."  
  
Melisande rubbed her face roughly, stood from her chair, and walked over to the window. She looked out on the dry, cracked landscape. "It's the Joining," she whispered.  
  
Pulaski leaned forward in her chair. "The Joining. What exactly is that?"  
  
Melisande turned back to the doctor, tears were beginning to pool in her large violet eyes, and her voice quivered. "It's an ancient ritual, a meditation that allows us to connect with each other and celebrate the birth of our telepathic abilities."  
  
Pulaski nodded, and looked down at her hands for a moment. She was beginning to see where this was going and she could feel dread squeeze her stomach, but she asked the question that formed in her mouth anyway. "Is this ceremony somehow responsible for the damage we're seeing now?"  
  
She was unprepared for the look of bitter fury that twisted the priestesses pale features. "No, The Romulans are responsible for the damage. The ceremony has been preformed since the first stirrings of telepathy awoke within us. They took our most sacred beliefs and soiled them." She spit the words out like rancid food, and then took a deep shuddering breath. She turned back to the window and was silent for a moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, coming from memories deep inside her.  
  
"I found Deanna lying unconscious, covered by the ash from the fires. I only found her because of the humming. Her mind was completely blocked to me. She felt it, perhaps not as keenly as a full telepath would, but she felt enough."  
  
Pulaski sat quietly, waiting for the young woman to continue. While she was no trained counselor, she knew when someone simply needed to relieve themselves of a burden they were carrying. Finally, after several minutes of silence she prompted Melisande to continue. "What did happen on that planet?"  
  
She could see Melisande shiver, despite the warmth. "The death of everything we hold dear." Pulaski had to strain to hear her cryptic response. "We were performing the meditation when the first volley of phaser fire hit," she continued in a louder and steadier voice. "The joining was just beginning, it really is a beautiful experience to feel so much joy and love emanating from so many people, but when the first shot hit everything went wrong. It was like being trapped in a web, because of the ceremony we were all connected. We felt the pain of those that were injured, as if it were our own. They latched on to our minds and dragged us down with them. Until, for just a moment, we lost all sense of self. Only those with the strongest shields pulled themselves out of it." She wrapped her arms around herself, huddling against the chill of the memory.  
  
"Did Deanna feel the same thing?"  
  
Melisande finally turned away from the window to face the doctor, the hollow grief that Melisande carried showing in the grim set of her eyes and mouth. "She would have felt some of it, but not the full force. I think, in the end, it was her mother's death that hurt the most. Despite the fact that she is only a child, and half-human, she would have felt it. Even before a Betazoid children have their Awakening their connections to their parents are strong, and Deanna's mother died in a great deal of pain." Melisande moved away from the window and sat back down. Her shoulders slumped and back bent, no trace of the aristocratic priestess left in her.  
  
"I thought when we left the planet, everything would be alright. I thought the voices would stop."  
  
Pulaski nodded her head, realization beginning to form. Those were exactly the words two of her Betazoid patients had used. "The voices, you're not the first person to mention them. What are they?"  
  
She closed her eyes, and drew a deep breath. "I don't know about the others, but I can still hear them. The cries for help, or just cries of pain. They are almost as vivid now as they were during the attack."  
  
"Which is probably what is responsible for the damage to the para- cortex," Pulaski mumbled to herself. She went back to her computer and began calling up new data.  
  
"Do you think you can stop it?"  
  
She bit her bottom lip trying to think of the gentlest way to phrase her answer while still being honest. "There is no known way to treat this kind of psychic trauma. However, the Betazoid brain has an amazing ability to heal itself. Hopefully, given time, it can do just that."  
  
"And what about Deanna?" Melisande's voice carried a note of concern.  
  
"I think she'll come out of it. She is young, and from what I've heard, she has a strong will. We just have to give her time."  
  
****  
  
Deanna sat on the floor of her childhood home, soaking up the warm sunlight coming through the massive windows that looked out on the garden. She watched with childish awe as the sun filtered through the tree leaves causing patterns of light and shadow to play across the floor. She was so entranced she did not notice the strange man sitting across the room watching her.  
  
He was a man who looked to be in his thirties, yet his true age was incalculable. His eyes really gave him away. While most would call them dark brown, a more than cursory glance revealed that they were so much more than that. They were eyes filled with knowledge, and more than a touch of impishness.  
  
He watched Deanna for a moment; he never ceased being amazed at a human's desire to procreate. While he himself could not see the charm it held for them, even he had to admit she did look the picture of innocence. Though he did not consider himself capable of regret, he had once had a passing acquaintance with the emotion, and despite himself he found he was loathe to rip away the child's last cocoon of comfort. Yet even as an immortal, omnipotent entity, time was not on his side. He was breaking a rule, and he knew it. One of the few rules he and his kind lived by.  
  
He cleared his throat, a completely human action, but effective none- the-less. Deanna's head snapped up and her dark eyes focused on him.  
  
"Who are you?" she asked. She knew she was safe here. The gentle melody of her father's song still floated in the air. Nothing could hurt her as long as she could hear the song.  
  
"I am a friend," he replied simply. He stood from the high-backed chair he was sitting in and made his way slowly across the room to squat beside her. All the while Deanna's eyes never left his tall slender form.  
  
"Do I know you?" Curiosity sounded in her high youthful voice.  
  
A devilish smile spread across his features. "Let's just say in another place, sometime in the near future we know each other."  
  
She gave him a quizzical look, "That doesn't make any sense."  
  
"Well I do keep forgetting that you are incapable of comprehending the simplest of ideas. Let us just keep it simple, and say yes. We do know each other." Deanna smiled at him and continued watching the light scatter across the warm wooden floor, humming along with the strands of music that played in her head.  
  
"That is a lovely song; as far as songs go," he commented.  
  
"It's my Daddy's song. He sings it to me every night, and sometimes when I am afraid or sad."  
  
"And where is your daddy Deanna?"  
  
"He's." she paused, her brow creasing with thought. A slow sense of fear crept through her, starting in her belly and radiating out. "You've come to make me leave this place haven't you?" Her voice was a quivering whisper; touches of terror began to show in her eyes. "I don't want to go. Please don't make me."  
  
For the first time since a certain android had caused feelings of guilt and self-loathing to stir within him, the man felt real emotion. With more than a bit of shock, he found he pitied the girl. He of all entities, a being who could cause planets to stop their rotation around the sun, who could wipe out entire races with a mere thought, pitied a nine- year-old girl. If there was one thing he had learned in all his travels, it was that existence was full of cruel ironies.  
  
"Deanna, I can't make you leave. That's something you have to do by yourself." His words seemed to reassure her, but she continued to look at him with dread.  
  
"Why are you here? This is my place, my special place, and I didn't invite you."  
  
He found her flare of temper amusing and chuckled. "My, you are a little spit-fire. I think I like you better this way, as compared to the psycho-babbling counselor." He sobered suddenly and fixed her with a serious look. "You're going to need that back bone girl, make no mistake. When you wake up from this little self-induced fantasy you are going to find your world turned upside down, and very few people willing to help you."  
  
"I don't want to leave here," she repeated meekly. "It's scary out there. Terrible things happen out there."  
  
He shrugged and looked at her as if she had just declared that suns were hot. "Of course terrible things happen. That's what life is all about, at least for you mere mortals."  
  
He leaned closer to her, and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "I'm going to tell you something that must remain just between the two of us." He paused for dramatic effect. After all, what fun was it if he couldn't add a little drama. "It was never supposed to happen." He leaned back and smiled knowingly.  
  
Deanna was confused. "What was not supposed to happen?"  
  
"Dear child do try to stay with me. All of this." He waved his hand to indicate their mentally conjured surroundings. "And all that happened to bring you here. It was never supposed to take place."  
  
"I don't understand." The man was starting to scare her, and she desperately wanted him to leave.  
  
"You will. Soon all of it will make sense. Until then, just remember this. 'Three souls will protect. One will pursue. Until the choice of a mortal brings balance renewed'." He grimaced, at the taste of the words in his mouth. "A dreadful poem, but important all the same. Remember it, remember that none of this was supposed to happen, and eventually you will understand more than you ever wanted to know."  
  
Suddenly the man cocked his head, as if hearing a far away sound, and he looked fearful for a moment. "It's time for me to go, they've almost found me. Remember what I told you."  
  
With a dismissive wave and a flash of light, the strange man was gone, leaving Deanna alone to listen to the strains of her father's song. She tried to forget his intrusion into her mind, but found she could not shake his words. Something about them tugged at her, pulling her further and further away from the music playing in her head.  
  
****  
  
Ro sat beside Deanna's bed enjoying the comfortable silence. She had come to visit Deanna every day for the past week. Sometimes she would tell her new friend what she did that day, other times she would simple sit beside her and listen to the melody of the song Deanna hummed.  
  
"Hey Ro," Pulaski stuck her head through the curtain and smiled. "Ten more minutes then you have to leave. She needs her rest."  
  
"All she does is rest."  
  
"You heard me. Ten minutes."  
  
"Alright," Ro relented. She looked down at her bare dirty feet, and sighed. "The doctor says I have to leave soon, but I'll be back tomorrow." Ro turned back and looked at Deanna. "When you finally wake up I'll take you to the rock formations just north of the camps. They're real pretty. And then when the rainy season comes, these tiny little flowers bloom. Mother says they wait in the dry ground all year just to bloom for a few weeks." Ro paused, straining to think for anything more to tell Deanna. There was a lot to Jaros III that was not pretty, but Deanna would discover that soon enough.  
  
"There's a lot more of your kind here now. They're setting up a camp close to the Bajoran camps. We'll kind of be like neighbors." Ro looked back at Deanna and cocked her head thoughtfully. "Something's different," she said quietly, unable to put her finger on what had changed.  
  
Then it suddenly hit her. Deanna had stopped humming.  
  
Ro stood suddenly from the chair and ripped open the dividing curtains. "Dr. Pulaski!" She screamed down the hallway in a panic. She heard the sound of several pairs of feet thundering toward her and turned back to Deanna. Not only had she stopped humming, but she was slowly uncurling herself from the fetal position. Ro could hear a whimper of pain come from her and she ran back to her side.  
  
"Hey I'm here." Deanna's eyes were squeezed shut, as if she were fighting waking up. But at the sound of Ro's voice her face relaxed. "You can hear me now can't you? It's okay to wake up, you're safe here." Ro watched in amazement as Deanna's eyes began to flutter. Then, as if waking from nightmare, her large eyes shot open and focused on Ro's face. Ro found herself transfixed by those eyes, as if this strange girl knew all the deepest darkest secrets of her soul.  
  
"Where's my mother?" Deanna's voice was a dry whisper. If Ro had not been so close to her face she would have missed the question. Just as the words left Deanna's mouth Pulaski came running to the bed.  
  
"Ro, what are you screaming about?" Pulaski trailed off as she saw Deanna focus blurrily on her. "Oh my God, you're awake. Welcome to the land of the living, my dear." 


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two: The Bearer of Memory  
2368  
  
O' call back time, bid yesterday return.  
William Shakespeare  
From Richard II act three, scene two  
  
"Stop! Gods, please stop!" Deanna screamed. The last thing she wanted to see was all that took place after that. She fell to her knees in front of the Guardian, ignoring the sharp rocks that stabbed into her knees. Hot, bitterly angry tears burned her throat, and she made no attempt to hold them back. She wept, great heaving sobs racked her slender frame. She mumbled, and raged incoherently at the universe. Her cries of sorrow mingled with the wind, which answered her with howls of its own.  
  
Her life, with all its grief, came crashing down around her. Weighing her down, squeezing the air from her lungs in shuddering cries.  
  
She barely noticed the eerie maelstrom growing in intensity. She was not sure how long she cried. No sun or moon penetrated the ever present storm clouds on Forever World, leaving no way to gauge the passage of time. Slowly, though, her convulsive crying tapered off.  
  
It was then she felt a presence behind her.  
  
"Don't you want to see the rest?" a cool, male voice asked. She was about to turn to face the intruder when she felt a surprisingly strong arm encircle her waist effectively pinning her against him, preventing her from turning around. She yelped in surprise. The body that went with the disdainful voice pressed hard against her back. She could feel his muscles rippling across his chest, but the body felt wrong somehow, almost too cold. Even her empathic senses bounced off whatever shields he threw up.  
  
"Answer me. Don't you want to see it?" She managed a weak shake of her head against his shoulder. "Well why ever not?" His voice whispered into her ear, his breath stirred her hair and tickled her neck. The man's voice began to sound vaguely familiar. "Don't you want to relive the years you spent as a refugee from your home, or see the time you spent learning the finer points of espionage at that joke of an academy?" As he spoke he gestured vaguely to the Guardian, causing a whirlwind of images to play across the center so quickly she could only make out a blur of color.  
  
"Perhaps you would prefer to see the moment you met the love of your life. Your *Imzadi*." He spat the sacred word out with a disgusted growl, and then continued his taunting. "Or the birth of your child. The few years of domestic bliss you found before it all blew away. Or maybe the time after that, when you inflicted that little souvenir on yourself. Remember that moment."  
  
The Guardian's image shifted again. This time she saw herself. Hair unbrushed, eyes wild and red-rimmed. Standing in the sterile room of a field hospital. She knew the moment. The moment she had used the Klingon dagger Ro had given her years before to slice her wrist open.  
  
"Must have been difficult for you. Three days after your child's death. Feeling empty, alone. Only the memories to keep you company." His voice was a mocking caress against her cheek. "Surely there are better ways to end your life. But you always were a touch melodramatic."  
  
"Leave me alone!" she screamed. She leaned back hard against him, upsetting his center of balance enough for her to break his hold on her waist. She scrambled away and turned toward her attacker, automatically crouching in a defensive posture.  
  
She was surprised to find him standing there calmly, his arms folded across his chest, and one eyebrow cocked in amusement. He was a tall man, slender, with an air of aristocratic grace. He wore a Starfleet uniform that indicated his rank as a captain.  
  
"I know you." She studied his non-descript brown hair and plain features. There was nothing about him that really stood out. Until she looked at his eyes. They were brown, at least at first, but the longer she looked the less she was sure of that. It seemed his eyes glowed with the shifting colors of a nebula. And then realization hit her like a phaser shot to the head. "I've dreamt about you."  
  
"How flattering to know you dream of me." He placed his hand over his heart mockingly. "In truth my dear, those were not dreams, you are simply too obtuse to realize it. They were my attempt to communicate with a lesser species." He smiled slightly. "I really should know better by now." Deanna stared, shaking her head slowly in disbelief. "Oh, it's true, yet despite all my attempts, you failed to understand. I risked the wraith of the Q Continuum. And what do you do? You completely ignore me." He took several menacing steps forward, all traces of his previous smile evaporating.  
  
"Who are you?" she asked, her confusion and fear mounting.  
  
"I am Q. Your last and final hope." He took another step forward, causing Deanna to move away. "Tell me, Deanna. Did you even try to understand what I was telling you? Did you even think about the things I said?"  
  
"I tried. I tried to understand," she whispered meekly.  
  
"Did you, did you really?" Suddenly he dashed toward her, moving faster than Deanna could react. He grabbed her right wrist, holding it firmly while his other hand roughly pushed the sleeve of her nightshirt away, exposing the faded pink of the scar on her wrist. "What is this Deanna? Your attempt to understand?" He increased the pressure on her wrist causing her to gasp. With a gentle, almost sensuous caress, he traced the outline of the scar. "It's amazing. So frail the human form. So easily broken, effortlessly snubbed out of existence." His voice, in direct contrast to his painful grasp, was a feathery whisper. She repressed an involuntary shudder. "Yet through some bizarre twist of fate, everything relies on your kind. Ironic isn't it?"  
  
With mind numbing sped he spun her back around, facing her toward the Guardian. "Well Deanna. I'm sick of playing this little game, even omnipotent beings have limited patience." He made another gesture toward the Guardian, and Deanna felt a thrum of power pulse up from the ground. "I'm going to show you instead."  
  
As soon as the words left his mouth the kaleidoscope of colors coalesced into a solid image. And Deanna felt new tears prick at her eyes.  
  
There, in the center of the Guardian was her dead daughter.  
  
Yet not as Deanna remembered. Elizabeth had been four when she passed away, but the girl the Guardian showed her was clearly a teenager. The first awkward curves beginning to form under the pale lilac dress she wore. Her long dark hair pulled away from her face. And her eyes, a deep midnight blue. The same eyes that used to plead for a piece of candy, or twinkle with glee as Deanna tickled her. She would have recognized those eyes anywhere.  
  
"Beautiful isn't she? For a human. Look at her, your little girl all grown-up, maturing into womanhood without you." Deanna tried to speak, but found the lump in her throat impossible to move air past. "But that's not all I have to show you." Images swirled in the Guardian, first quickly, then slowing down enough for her to make out the pictures, then speeding up again.  
  
She saw Elizabeth in every stage of her life, from child to adulthood and back again. Sometimes Deanna saw herself in the images, or at least a woman that looked like her. The woman in the images lacked the haunted, haggard look that stared at Deanna in the mirror every morning. This woman looked happy, even fulfilled.  
  
And just to twist the knife that was perpetually lodged in her heart, even *he* was there. The man she had turned away from, the man who broke her heart just as she broke his. Her Imzadi. William Riker.  
  
Suddenly the images slowed considerably, playing in real time like some twisted holodeck program. The woman that was her, and yet not, stood in a garden. It was a place from Deanna's childhood, the gardens of the Troi mansion.  
  
The stranger with her face was bending down to smell the Earth hyacinth her father had planted when she was a child. The image of her was older, a few streaks of silver cutting through her jet-black hair, and a fine network of wrinkles adding a careworn expression to her face. From somewhere out of the Guardian's range Will came up behind her. He too had aged considerably, though his eyes still twinkled with youthful mischief. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and gave a gentle squeeze. Deanna could see the couple talking, but no sound came from the Guardian.  
  
Her mirror image ran her fingers through Will's thinning hair making it stand at odd angles, she tipped back her head and chuckled. He laughed at her teasing, placed his hand on the curve of her neck, and drew her toward him for a tender kiss.  
  
"They look so happy don't they, so complete." The man who called him self Q taunted. "Where do you suppose it all went wrong?" The words fell heavily from his mouth, and as they did the wind kicked up with such force it stole the air from Deanna's lungs.  
  
The Guardian's pictures swirled again, and this time when they stopped, it was a place and person she had never seen before.  
  
There was a tall, slender young man with pale blond hair. He stood on a desolate world, a place that looked much like Forever World. His features were delicate, almost feminine, but they were twisted, distorted by a look of maniacal glee. In his ice-blue eyes madness shone, but it was the object in his hands that caught her attention. He held a piece of circular stone no bigger than the palm of his hand. Deanna could see that the stone was chiseled with markings that had been worn almost completely away by time.  
  
The strange man's lips moved and the stone he was holding began to pulsate with light. Growing steadily brighter, until finally the light filled the Guardian's center, blocking all else from view. Deanna squeezed her eyes shut against the unnatural glow, and when she opened them again the image, and the man, were gone.  
  
"What was that?" she asked, expecting an answer from Q. It was the Guardian that answered.  
  
"A question was posed and it was answered," the Guardian's voice seemed to make the very ground tremble.  
  
"What question?" she asked.  
  
"Where did it all go wrong?" the Guardian answered.  
  
She felt Q release his grip on her arm, but she stood frozen in place. Her eyes narrowed in confusion, her gut twisted in fear. Somehow, that man was responsible for everything that was wrong with her life. He was responsible for the invasion of her homeworld, the death of her child, the ruin of her marriage, and the eternal hell she currently lived in. She shook off her musings and turned to face Q.  
  
But he was gone.  
  
She shook her head slowly, trying to clear the muddling fog that was growing. It was too much to take in. How could one man be responsible for everything? She turned back purposefully to the Guardian, determined to find out what was happening.  
  
"Replay the last image." The Guardian complied with her command instantly. As she watched, slowly, like spring releasing a lake from its icy prison, a plan began to form.  
  
************************************************************************  
  
Q watched Deanna from the safety of the in-between place, neither in time, nor out of it. The place of existence.  
  
He watched her re-play the scene over and over again, and each time her face seemed to set, to harden like drying clay. He knew he had done what he set out to do.  
  
"What are you doing here Q?" The soft lyrical voice broke his musings, and startled him. There were very few people capable of startling him, but as he turned toward the voice in the nothingness, he stood face to face with one of them.  
  
"Hello Watcher," Q said trying to keep the disinterested tone in his voice. No one really knew her name, at least no one that Q knew of. She was simply referred to as Watcher. He had never seen her in her physical form before; he studied her delicate features curiously. She was tall and slim, dressed in flowing, diaphanous white gown that constantly moved about her body, as did her waist long silver hair. Her face seemed almost fragile, like a piece of finely wrought crystal. Something to be handled with care. But he knew that was deceiving. She was power incarnate, one of the only beings that the Continuum feared, and avoided at all costs.  
  
"I asked you a question, Q. You know this timeline is off limits. What are you doing here?" Her voice remained serene, though that serenity only thinly veiled the power within her. However, he was Q and no matter what the others in the Continuum thought, he did not fear her.  
  
"I am simply watching. Since you have spent eons doing so, I figured there must be something terribly exciting about it."  
  
"And you were not meddling?" she asked.  
  
He pulled himself up indignantly. "I am not a meddler. I know better then to go where I am not wanted."  
  
"That's good to know." Though her face remained impassive, he was sure he heard a note of laughter in her voice. She floated closer. Her aura hit him like a physical blow. For the first time in a long time, he felt a stirring awe. Of course being who he was this only served to annoy him.  
  
He turned back to the images he was watching through the clouds of Time. Deanna still stood at the Guardian. Obsessively studying the last scene he had left her with.  
  
"Q I know you have spoken with her. Through her dreams," the Watcher said. Her voice was gentle, almost motherly. "Did you really think you could hide it from me? I am the Watcher."  
  
"I broke no rules." He internally winced at the defensiveness in his voice.  
  
"Yet," she finished his thought.  
  
"So what are you going to do? Banish me? Forbid me from returning?" He felt his annoyance rising. Just whom did she think she was dealing with? He was the Q.  
  
She pinned him with a look. Her shimmering opalescent eyes transfixing him in place. "I don't care who you are. If I felt it necessary I could scatter your essence on the Winds of Time. I could extinguish your life force."  
  
Q had lived a long life. As he looked into the Watchers eyes, saw her face twist with an anger that made her ethereal beauty so much more frightening, he felt fear. Real fear.  
  
Just as suddenly as the anger had appeared, it was replaced by calm dignity. "Fortunately, I see no need to do so. As you said you have broken no rules." She came closer to him, and looked through the clouds of Time at the image of Deanna, still on Forever World. They both watched as Deanna worked the computer terminal that was set up next to the Guardian to record any thing the enigmatic relic displayed or said. Q had spent enough time among humans to know she was recording the images for future reference, and he smiled. 'Good girl, don't forget anything I told you,' he thought.  
  
"You have observed her for a long time, haven't you?" the Watcher asked him. He was suddenly very aware of her nearness; her psychic sense overwhelmed him for a moment before he managed to gain control.  
  
"Yes, I have watched her since she was a child."  
  
"They are an interesting race aren't they?"  
  
"Interesting is hardly the word I use. Inferior perhaps," he said.  
  
He was surprised to feel her fingers touch his cheek. In his normal form, he had no sense of physical sensation. When in human form he rarely allowed himself to be touched, though there was the rather embarrassing episode with a certain Benjamin Sisko that still bothered him. He was shocked by the jolt of electricity her cool touch sent through him. It was like burning in a fire, and shivering from an icy cold all at the same time.  
  
"Don't be so sure of their inferiority. They hold powers that you and I could not begin to understand." She withdrew her hand slowly, allowing contact to linger as long as possible. She gave him a half smile and stepped back, the fog that permeated the place began to draw around her, obscuring her from view. However, her voice echoed through him as she retreated. "Remember Q; leave her to make her own choices or Balance will never be found." 


	4. Chapter TwoB

Sleep did not come to Deanna Troi that night. After making a copy of the image the Guardian had shown her, she returned to quarters to process the occurrences of that strange night.  
  
Her thoughts were tumultuous, spinning from one fragmented thought to the next like a child's top. She thought of the things she saw in the Guardian. The invasion of her home world, her mother's death. She could still recall the scent of burning, the screams of the dying in her head. Even after twenty-three years, the damage done to her para-cortex never healed. She, along with most of the surviving members of her race, could still hear the voices of the dead in their minds. For the most part, it was easy to ignore. Like the thrum of engines on a star ship, once you got used to the sound it rarely registered. Yet, Deanna found there were times when the voices were louder, unbearably so.  
  
Like when Elizabeth died.  
  
Her precious daughter, her strongest link to sanity. She found herself rubbing her scar on the inside of her wrist, much the same way Q had a few hours before. Q's taunting words echoed in her head, 'Surely there are better ways to end your life. But you always were a touch melodramatic.'  
  
She thought of that day. The day she inflicted the wound on herself.  
  
She remembered so little about how she got away from the wreck of the *Phoenix*. All she knew was her daughter was dead, while she herself had survived. For the second time in her life she had cheated death, and that knowledge was a foul taste in her mouth. Deanna's only injury was a small cut above her right eye, the only proof that she had been on the transport ship at all before it was attacked.  
  
She sat on her hospital bed, listening to the distant sounds of nurses and doctors shuffling through the halls. The emptiness clawed at her stomach, the dead howled in her ears. A new voice now added to the symphony of humanity that wailed in her mind. The voice of her daughter.  
  
How long she sat on the bed, feeling nothing, she did not know, but eventually she moved. Somehow one piece of luggage had survived, and lay on the floor. She moved methodically, her joints stiff from disuse, and crouched down to open up the suitcase.  
  
Her breath hitched in her throat when she saw what was inside. They were simple things really, Elizabeth's clothes, a small doll that she liked to take with her on long trips. Deanna picked up each article of clothing, carefully folding the shimmering pink jumpsuits and lilac dresses.  
  
She knew she should cry knew it was not healthy to keep it all inside. But she had no tears. She felt dried up, spent. As if the vacuum of space had sucked everything out of her when it claimed her daughter. She knew it had.  
  
And that's when she found the knife.  
  
It was in a simple metal box, folded up in a pair of Deanna's pants. It was silly, but that knife had gone everywhere with her since the day Ro gave it to her. The day she left Jaros III. It was her talisman against bad luck, a reminder of who she was and where she came from. As a talisman, it had failed.  
  
She stared at the knife, trying to bring back the emotions she usually felt when she looked at it. Grief, nostalgia, loss, anything was better than the emptiness. But nothing came.  
  
Somehow, she ended up in the bathroom, though she did not recall moving. The knife in her left hand glistened hypnotically in the bright sterile light. All she wanted to do was feel again.  
  
Feel anything.  
  
She touched the knife to her wrist. Felt the cold steel. Her arm moved the knife along her wrist. It seemed an independent act, separate from her body. She had no control.  
  
It wasn't until the warmth of her blood spread across her cold skin and splashed onto the pristine white marble of the vanity that she stopped. The bright red fluid entrapping her as surely as the glittering knife had.  
  
Then she laughed. A high pitched manic laugh. It bubbled from her like a stream. It was that laughter that attracted one of the nurses.  
  
The Vulcan woman was calm as she took in the scene. Deanna leaning on the vanity, blood pouring from her right wrist, and the knife still firmly planted in her other hand. She disappeared for a moment, and returned with a small device. By that time Deanna had fallen to the floor.  
  
The Vulcan crouched down beside her. Unlike a human, she did not waste time with unnecessary questions. No 'What were you thinking?' or 'Are you alright?' crossed her thin, severe lips.  
  
She simply gripped Deanna's bloody wrist, an uncharacteristic wince crossing her face at the forced physical contact, and looked Deanna straight in the eyes. "This is going to hurt, but there is no time to anesthetize you."  
  
It was then that Deanna recalled where she was. Not a modern civilian hospital, but a clinic, much like Pulaski's clinic on Jaros III. Where new equipment was hard to get a hold of and the cure might be worse than the disease. Deanna could see the instrument the Vulcan held in her hand was at least twenty years old, maybe more. Yes, it was indeed going to hurt.  
  
And it did. The regenerator knitted together her vein, her sliced muscle tissue, and finally her skin. But it left the scar. No time to worry about scars, just saving lives.  
  
Deanna welcomed the pain, cried out as the wound was cauterized. For just a split second, the emptiness was gone. It was worth the pain.  
  
Deanna pulled herself from the memories slowly. She felt as if she were caught in thick mud, trying to escape its grip, but the more she struggled the harder it pulled on her. She did not want to think about all those things, about Elizabeth, the attack on the transport ship the *Phoenix,* the end of her marriage. There was just too much.  
  
With a heavy sigh she turned back to her quarters, taking in the generic décor with a grimace. There was only a simple bed, small dining table, and a desk. The wind blustered faintly outside the barracks metal walls, muted but still haunting.  
  
"I have to do something," she mumbled to the empty room. She found, over the years, that action was the only thing capable of dulling the edge of her memories. Now, for the first time in a long time, she had purpose. Q had given her something to focus on, a glimmer of hope in the bleakness.  
  
She held the data chip in a protective fist, feeling the corners and hard lines jab into her palm. She glanced at the chrono on the bedside table, smiled at the time, all the scientist should be up now. She had questions, lots of questions, for them to answer.  
  
*********************************************************  
  
Archeologist, Jonathan Mailer was none too comfortable in the presence of Starfleet Intelligence Officer Deanna Troi. She had come first thing in the morning to the archive room demanding access to the computer banks. Of course, Mailer could not have refused her. She was there on behalf of Starfleet, in charge of the evaluation Mission Forever suffered through each year. Something elusive about her bothered him. It was like knowing someone's name when they were standing right in front of you, but being unable to call it up from the depths of your mind. And then there were her eyes. Their inky depths seemed to bore into him with unrelenting pressure, unnerving his normally placid nature.  
  
Now she was bent over a computer console, scanning through the insurmountable amount of data collected during Mission Forever's forty years of work with the Guardian. Mailer was trying hard to ignore her, especially since she told him, rather bluntly, that she did not need his assistance with her search.  
  
Mailer turned back to the pottery shards he was cataloging, carefully entering all pertinent information on a data pad. He had over two hundred different fragments of stonework, pottery, and even a few fossils to catalogue. All of which were spread out on a long table in the warehouse like room. Besides Troi, he was alone in his work, and he much preferred it that way. Though his work was monotonous he enjoyed the steady quite. Not that he was getting much of it today.  
  
Troi spewed forth a string of words in an alien, though lovely, language. Mailer could tell from her tone of voice that they were swear words and his assumption was confirmed when she smacked the palm of her hand on the console and spoke in standard.  
  
"Son-of-a-bitch!"  
  
Mailer turned from his artifact table, and smiled at Troi's back, amused at her lack of composure. "Something I can help you with Ms. Troi?" He wasn't sure what her rank was, he wasn't even sure if SI officers had a real rank, and he sure as hell didn't want to use her first name.  
  
She spun around, perhaps hearing the humor in his voice, and stabbed him with a narrow eyed stare. "How do you keep track of anything here? These files are all out of order, it's impossible to find what you're looking for."  
  
He gently replaced the fist-sized piece of pottery he was holding on the table and took a step toward the console. "Are you looking for something specific?"  
  
If possible, her gaze narrowed further, a twist of suspicion crossing her face. "Yes, "she answered reluctantly. He pulled a chair in front of the computer terminal.  
  
He looked up at her from his sitting position, the glow of the computer screen casting her features in a light not unlike candle light. She was lovely, though the hard lean lines of her figure, and the haunted searching look in her eyes would easily scare most men away. He noticed that she was studying him with equal intensity, though she looked more curious about something as opposed to finding him attractive. He got the sinking feeling she had just picked up on everything he was thinking. To cover his embarrassment he ran his finger through his thinning gray hair and down his neck to rub at a sore spot.  
  
"Are you looking for a past image the Guardian has shown, or something else?" he asked.  
  
She appeared to come to a decision about him. Most of the tension eased from her face and she sat down in the chair beside him. "I'm not really sure what I'm looking for?"  
  
Well," he said doubtfully, "if you could give me some place to start."  
  
She studied him again for another moment, he was starting to conclude that she rarely made a decision rashly, and then nodded her head in one sharp motion. She leaned forward, hit a key on the terminal, and instantly an image popped up on the screen. The picture was frozen on a man, standing on a dry-looking planet, holding a circular stone, etched with fading markings.  
  
"Do you recognize this man?" she asked.  
  
"No. Should I?"  
  
"What about the stone he's holding?"  
  
"Well," Mailer started slowly. "It does look a little like the artifacts we found on the planet, about three kilometers south of here. The remnants of a town maybe, or some other place where a large number of people would have collected." Mailer was truly excited about the discovery. It was the first of its kind ever found on Planet Forever. Perhaps the first step in unraveling the mysteries of this planet and the ancient Guardian.  
  
"What about the markings?"  
  
Mailer squinted at them and cocked his head to one side thoughtfully before a slow satisfied smile spread across his aged features. "I actually think I might be able to translate these two markings here." He pointed at two of the markings that sat side by side. He glanced up at Troi just in time to see a thrill of excitement light up her face before the flame was snuffed out, replaced by indifference.  
  
"Then do it," she said.  
  
It took him longer than he had anticipated to work through the database of languages, but after nearly an hour of stooping over the terminal he finished. Troi had not left his side the entire time.  
  
"It's curious really. These markings are similar to the languages of several cultures throughout this quadrant. As far as I can tell the one shaped like an upside down pyramid, with a sun seeming to peak over its base, and three lines coming off its tip, means the same thing in at least three ancient languages."  
  
"Doctor, I did not come here for a lesson in language history. Just tell me what the damn things mean."  
  
He huffed a little at her rudeness, but continued. "The pyramid shape generally translates to the passage of time. The sun included with it means a great expanse of time. Now the three lines are harder to translate, but I think they represent a break, like the way a prism refracts light, breaking it apart and recasting into something new. And the other symbol is quite easy, at least for translating, it stands for both death *and* rebirth."  
  
"What the hell does that mean?"  
  
"Well, for lack of a better translation, or a Rosetta stone for alien languages, I think it means either the birth, or death, of time." Troi shook her head slowly, and Mailer could see her confusion mounting. "Look, it basically means that whoever marked the stone like that thought it was a weapon of some kind. A weapon that would either bring about something new and glorious or destroy the universe. Your fairly standard mythology really."  
  
He watched her pace the room, her chin resting on her steepled fingers. After a few moments she stooped mid-stride and turned to Mailer.  
  
"May I ask you another question?" she asked.  
  
"Could I stop you?" His attempt at humor earned him a wan smile from Troi that evaporated as quickly as water in the desert.  
  
"What do you know about alternate timelines?"  
  
"Well," he said trying to keep the excitement from his features. Troi had accidentally hit on a passion of his. "I'm afraid I'm no expert or physicist, but I have done a bit of research on the subject. Being stationed at Planet Forever you sort of develop an interest in the bizarre and alternate timelines are definitely that."  
  
Troi sat back down in her chair though Mailer did notice, with of touch sadness, that she had pulled her chair further away. He brushed this off as mere happenstance and launched into his theories his speech becoming fast in his excitement.  
  
"There are so many interesting braches from our own timeline one could not possibly hope to catalog them all, but there are a few incidents that seem to shape the very fabric of those timelines. I myself have studied what I believe to be one timeline, though sometimes it's hard to tell which is which, they are so similar as to be almost the same."  
  
"Please, go on," Troi urged, propping her elbows up on the terminal and resting her cheek in the palm of her hand, Her casual body language allowing her appearance to soften for a moment, so much so that Mailer stumbled over his next words.  
  
"Well.Um.There is the obvious fact that these other timelines are not at war with the Klingons or the Romulans. In fact from what the Guardian has shown us it seems that they are at peace with the Klingons at least, and suffer an uneasy truce with the Romulans." Mailer could see Troi mulling this over.  
  
"Has the Guardian given any indication of how this happened?" she asked.  
  
"As full of an explanation as you can get from the Guardian. It appears that in some of the timelines James T. Kirk did not participate in the mass murder of several Klingons and the assassination of Chancellor Gorkon of the Klingon High Counsel. As you know those murders and the failed attempt of Capitan Spock to rescue his comrades created an international incident that allowed the Romulans to renew their friendship with the Klingons."  
  
"And that didn't happen in these other timelines?"  
  
"Gorkon was murdered, just like in this time, but Kirk was found innocent. It led to a long standing peace accord with the Klingons, which helped keep the Romulans at bay. There are a myriad of other similar things, small things in the scope of time, which allowed for continued peace. But for whatever reason those things never happened here, or if they did they had different consequences."  
  
Troi leaned back in her chair, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip while digesting all this.  
  
"I assume that's not all the Guardian has shown?" she finally said after a few moments.  
  
"No, indeed it is not. However, that is perhaps the most disturbing. There are a few incidents, minor things really, that have given us pause for thought. For example in several to the observed timelines there is only one android."  
  
"Really," Troi said raising her eyebrows in mild disbelief.  
  
"It appears in a great deal of the timelines we have been shown, Dr. Maddox lost his claim on the Soong type android, the one called Data. So, he was never able to create duplicates of the android. Unlike with us, they do not have an android on almost every Federation ship, or the technology that was born of Maddox's discoveries."  
  
" Interesting," she said. She looked uncomfortable for a moment, but seemed to shrug it off quickly. "How many of these timelines have you recorded?" Troi asked.  
  
Of all her questions this was perhaps the only one that caused a sensation much like dread to thrum inside him. "A few," he replied cautiously. He was suddenly aware of how some of the information the Guardian dispensed so freely could be dangerous in the wrong hands. It was in fact only the scientists' theories on the danger of meddling with time and other alternate realities that kept Starfleet from using the Guardian to its own end. He was beginning to feel that he just talked himself into a corner, when the inevitable question came.  
  
"May I see the alternate timelines?" she asked, her voice the epitome of honeyed sweetness.  
  
Mailer scrambled for an excuse not to show them to her, but in the end knew it was a lost cause. He could not deny a Starfleet Intelligence officer anything, especially this one. He may have known more about ancient rocks then he did about people, but he was sure this particular woman would not let him stand in the way if she truly wanted something.  
  
"Of course," he answered hesitantly.  
  
As if reading his inner most thoughts, Troi leaned forward and placed her hand on his knee. "Doctor I assure you that the information gathered here will not be used for anything but pure research. My security clearance codes are second only to the highest ranking officials of Starfleet Command, do you really think I would be granted such a high clearance if I could not be trusted?"  
  
"No I don't suppose you would," he said. She squeezed his knee affectionately and bestowed a dazzling smile on him. "So, if I could take a look at the recordings of the alternate timelines I would be very appreciative."  
  
A short time later, Mailer watched Troi leave the archive room with her requested data in hand. As the doors swished shut behind her he chastised himself for being such a paranoid, foolish old man and went back to his table of pottery shards.  
  
**************************  
  
Less then one hour later Deanna's suitcase was packed and her shuttlecraft humming. She sat in the cockpit, mechanically ticking off the pre-flight checklist. It was second nature to her, while one part of her brain checked the shields, engines, weapons, and life support, the other part concentrated on her new problem.  
  
She realized what Q had shown her last night was an alternate universe. One in which her daughter lived, and she and Will were still together. One in which the invasion of her homeworld never occurred. She also recognized the surge of jealousy that flooded her, jealousy for the life the other Deanna Troi lived. The life of apparent happiness and fulfillment. She pushed the envy down inside her, as she was accustomed to doing with many of her emotions, and concentrated on the problem at hand.  
  
How to fix what had gone wrong with her own life. And she thought she had a good idea of where to start. She had to find out everything she could about that strange man Q wanted to her to see so badly, and the artifact. The one that Mailer had called a weapon, something that could bring about the destruction or rebirth of the universe.  
  
As her shuttle ascended into the ominous clouds of Forever World, she felt her own rebirth. The weight of the last twenty odd years of grief, and guilt melting as the cold light of the alien sun touched her.  
  
She knew, as she left Forever World behind, that there was no going back. From the moment she had made the decision to go to the Guardian, her life had changed. She had new direction, a focus for her years of self- loathing and anger. She smiled in the dim light of the shuttle, punched in the coordinates, and pushed the craft into warp drive.  
  
For those with the ears to listen, the sound of triumphant laughter echoed through the vacuum of space. Q had indeed succeeded in his mission, and he knew it. 


	5. Chapter Three

Chapter Three Seven Years Later 2375  
  
Oh Time! The beautifier of the dead Adorner of the ruin, Comforter And only healer when the heart hath bleed; ... Time, the Avenger  
  
Lord Byron from *Childe Harold's Pilgrimage*  
  
William could still recall the sound of his father's voice when he gave Will the only piece of fatherly advice the boy had ever received. It was during their first, and last, flying lesson, sitting in the cramped two- person transport unit.  
  
'Son,' Kyle Riker said, the only time he called Will son. 'Ships are like women. Treat them firmly but gently, show them respect for their power and they'll give you the goods every time.' It was a sentiment Will continued to hear through out his career in Starfleet. It seemed every man fancied a ship was a woman.  
  
Looking back Will had to question the wisdom of saying something like that to a twelve-year-old boy, but wisdom was something his father did not carry in spades. The saying, cliché as it was, was attached to the only memory he had of being close to his father. It was the last time Will could remember liking Kyle Riker. It was one of the last times he saw Kyle through youthful eyes, as a son yearning for the day his father would look on him in pride. That day never came.  
  
Now, quickly approaching forty, he knew what his father said was not completely correct. You could show a ship gentleness, respect, and love and it would give you its all. Women did not work in the same way. No matter how much love and respect you gave them, they left. Even if you loved them with everything you were; they would still leave you scavenging for the pieces of your life like an animal. Desperately trying to hold on to the few scraps you had left.  
  
That was how he found himself prowling the corridors of the warship *Enterprise*. Finding comfort in the welcoming, concealing darkness. In these moments the *Enterprise* was more like a woman then any other time. She was mysterious, rich, and sensual. Welcoming him into the warmth of her embrace as a Siren's songs lured sailors centuries ago. In her enveloping darkness, the simulated night, he could hide his face from the rest of the universe and leave his mind free to explore thoughts best kept away from the light of day.  
  
He thought of many things on this night. The woman, Allison, he left sleeping alone in her bed, how angry she would be when she woke to find him gone. He thought of the woman who once broke his heart, the woman he pretended Allison was in the dark.  
  
He wasn't proud of himself. He was not so far gone that he didn't know he was an ass. Perhaps he would have felt more guilt if he thought Allison truly loved him. As much as it might hurt his ego, he knew she looked at him as an opportunity to advance her career.  
  
He chuckled in the dark. *She's not a very smart girl if she thinks sleeping with a has been like me will do anything for her,* he mused. Maybe in her own way she really did care. The thought came unbidden, but he shrugged it off as the wishful thinking of someone who knows their being used but can't strike up the courage to put an end to it. Or someone who is doing a little using themselves.  
  
He stepped into a well-lit turbolift, and leaned against the back wall. "Deck eight," he said. As the lift complied with his order, he remembered a recent conversation with Counselor Delaney during one of their weekly sessions. Delaney suggested that William continued to enter into negative relationships because a part of him thought that was all he was worth. It sounded like bullshit psychotherapy to Will. He ran his hands through his hair, grimacing at the few strands that stuck to his fingers, and sighed.  
  
The turbolift stopped and Will resumed his walk, within moments he stood outside his quarters staring at the door. He should go in and sleep, but the idea of facing that empty room made him uneasy. What was there for him? More darkness, disturbing thoughts, growing self-pity, and a bottle of bourbon hidden in one of his drawers. In the end, it was the sound of someone coming down the corridor that made up his mind. The last thing he wanted was to be found staring at his own door in the middle of the night. Most of the crew already thought he was crazy, no reason to give them proof. He quickly keyed in his access code and stepped through the doors.  
  
The room was as he expected it to be, empty, bare of decoration, unwelcoming. He looked at the chrono beside his unmade bed, and made a face of disgust. He only had three hours to drink himself into sleep before he had to get up and get ready for bridge duty.  
  
"Well old man," he said to the empty room, "better get busy. Starfleet doesn't like slackers."  
  
*********************************************  
  
He dreamt a familiar dream that night.  
  
He was walking through an empty house. A house he once shared with a wife and daughter.  
  
He moved through each room, trying to call out their names, but his voice was gone. He became frantic, opening his mouth wide to scream, but no sound came. The rooms were empty and cold.  
  
He started running from room to room, throwing open doors, and bellowing. Still no noise. Panic clawed at him.  
  
The dream melted into a sludge of images, memories, and sensation. His daughter smiling at him, her midnight blue eyes shinning like sapphires. Deanna calmly telling him it was over. Images of war, and battle. All swirling together.  
  
***********************************************  
  
Will awoke with a start, upsetting the glass he fell asleep holding. The amber colored bourbon sloshed over the rim, soaking his arm in the strong smelling alcohol.  
  
"Damn," he swore. He stood from the chair that had served as his bed and headed toward the bathroom. When he caught sight of the time, he cursed again. Only twenty minutes before he had to be on the bridge.  
  
If there was one thing he was good at, it was running late. In fact, it seemed to be the story of his life. Within fifteen minutes he was showered, dressed, and standing in front of his mirror looking at his blood- shot eyes. He felt suddenly tired, not just from lack of sleep but a deep weariness that settled into his bones. He rubbed his face with his hands hoping to wipe away the grittiness and the last tendrils of dream.  
  
Will took in his slightly rumpled appearance, and tried to smooth the creases in his uniform with the palms of his hands. "Old Baldy's not going to like this," he said to his reflection. "But he can damn well get over it."  
  
Will snapped his heels together, threw off a jaunty salute to the mirror, and walked out the door.  
  
He walked onto the bridge two minutes later, right on time. The rest of alpha shift was already at their posts. La Forge and Yar along the back bulkhead at tactical and engineering. Lieutenant Crusher sat at helm and Data, in his nondescript grey jumpsuit, at ops. Riker nodded to each and was starting his morning inspections when he noticed the captain was missing. This could mean one of two things. Either the old man had finally croaked, or he was sitting in his ready room pondering whatever philosophical mysteries bounded about in that senile head of his.  
  
"Data, where is the captain?" he asked  
  
"Captain Picard received a priority one message from Starfleet Command," Data replied in his monotone voice. Even after five years of working with the android, Will was uncomfortable under its golden-eyed stare. This particular Data model was a second-generation copy of the only Soong type android known to exist. Every time Will looked at it, he could not help but think about the original Data. The one who had been denied admittance into Starfleet; the one who had his freedoms stripped from him and even now was probably laying in pieces in some laboratory, being studied by over eager scientists. The idea did not sit well with Riker. Something about it was just wrong, but he had no time to think on it this morning. He did not like the thought of what a priority one message from HQ might mean.  
  
He nodded absently at Data's reply and continued his circle around the bridge, all the while pondering what Picard could be hearing in his ready room. As Will approached the tactical and engineering stations that took up the entire back of the bridge, he caught sight of Yar and La Forge bent over a terminal whispering to one another. La Forge saw Riker approaching and elbowed Yar to warn her. Picard did not like idle chit chat on the bridge, but Riker couldn't have cared less, so long as they did their job when the time came.  
  
"Mr. La Forge," Riker said with a nod of greeting. "Anything to report?"  
  
"No sir. The engines are still running at seventy-five percent. Shields are down by twenty-three percent. That last scrimmage with the Romulans didn't do either one any good."  
  
"Any recommendations?" Will regretted the question as soon as it was out of his mouth. La Forge always made the same recommendation.  
  
"Yes sir. We need to get her into space dock. There is only so much I can do out here with limited resources."  
  
While Will was inclined to agree, he knew there was little hope of La Forge getting his wish. Since the destruction of Starbase 420 the month before, Starfleet was hurting for the manpower and resources that kept ships in good working order. But he figured passing on the information to Picard couldn't hurt.  
  
"I'll speak to the captain about it," he told the engineer. Geordi thanked him and went back to his readouts, while Riker turned his attention to the tactical officer, Tasha Yar.  
  
When he first transferred to the *Enterprise* he thought Tasha an attractive woman. Her lean athletic body, and sharp blue eyes drew him in, not that he was terribly particular. For the most part just breathing was enough. He was, of course, shot down ruthlessly. She was a tough no nonsense kind of woman, and she made clear her distaste for his "freewheeling" lifestyle. How ironic she thought him free, since he considered himself tied down by gossamer threads of guilt, and self- loathing.  
  
"Status report," he said in a clipped tone.  
  
Tasha returned his curt tone when she replied. "Weapons are functioning at ninety-three percent, sir." Her reply was not as comprehensive as procedure dictated, but he wasn't going to push the issue. His head hurt bad enough without feeling her contempt filled glare pin pointed on him. He nodded and moved on.  
  
He finished his inspection and came to stand at his post to the right of the captain's chair, behind waist tall display terminals that compiled all the incoming information from each station. After a cursory glance at the readouts, he leaned back on his heels and waited for Picard to poke his turtlehead out of the ready room.  
  
Luckily he didn't have long to wait. Picard strode onto the bridge; grimace frozen on his face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth he could not quite expel. Ha paused outside his ready room door and surveyed his bridge crew. His hawk-like hazel eyes landed on each person in turn before coming to rest on Riker himself. He took in Riker's slightly disheveled hair and uniform and his grimace deepened. Riker was used to feeling as if he always came up short to Picard's yardstick, and shrugged off the captain's obvious displeasure.  
  
"Commander," Picard said in a voice that professional but lacked any real warmth.  
  
"Sir," he replied with a nod of his head.  
  
Picard sat in his command chair, shifted until he found a comfortable position, and then turned to his first officer. "We have had a change of orders. We are to change course to 45006.8 at warp factor seven. Please see to the changes." He turned to the displays built into his armrest. Letting Riker know he was done with him for now.  
  
"Lieutenant Crusher, adjusting current heading to 45006.8 at warp factor seven," he said.  
  
"Aye sir," Crusher responded.  
  
Riker felt the vibrations under his boots, signifying a change in speed. "Data, estimated time of arrival?"  
  
The android did not even pause before rattling off; "Ten minutes and forty-seven point three seconds." Riker tried not to smile at the android, who had obviously missed the word estimated.  
  
Riker spent the ten minutes trying not to think, something he was becoming good at. But his mind kept wondering of its own volition, as he watched the crew go about their daily routines, saw the same detached, far away look that started at him in the mirror sometimes.  
  
He idly thought about their chances for seeing action anytime soon, but decided they were too far into Federation space to meet up with much of a threat. *This is pretty much what my life has become,* he thought, *long drawn out moments of waiting broken up by having my life threatened.* It was an uncomfortable thought and he stored away.  
  
"Something wrong Commander?" Picard's cool voice sliced through the last of his troubling thoughts. He had obviously noticed Riker's daydreaming.  
  
"No sir."  
  
"Good. I believe we are approaching the designated coordinates."  
  
Riker looked down at his readouts and gave himself a mental kick for not noticing sooner. "Full stop."  
  
"Aye sir; full stop," Crusher said as his hands flew over the console. As they dropped out of warp, Riker could see the *Goliath* hanging against the velvety blackness of space.  
  
"We are being hailed," Yar said.  
  
"On screen." Picard stood from his chair and stood in front of the viewscreen, his back ramrod straight. The face of Vice-Admiral Nechayev appeared on the screen. Her severe features were even more pinched then normal, and Will felt his stomach muscles tighten in apprehension. Whatever this was about, it was not a good sign if this woman was involved. Commander Franklin, one of Will's former commanding officers, had referred to Nechayev as 'hell on hills'. A sexist attitude, even for Riker, but accurate nonetheless.  
  
"Captain Picard, how good of you to finally join us," she said. There was no doubt in Riker's mind, the woman was as cold as frozen fish, and almost as appetizing.  
  
"Admiral," Picard replied. If he noticed her sarcasm he gave no outward sign. Riker had to respect him for that. While Picard could be a pain in his ass, he knew how to play the game. "I assume you have a good reason for taking us off course to meet you." Picard's tone remained respectful, but there was a hint of frustration in his well-polished words.  
  
"Charming as always Jean-Luc. She sounded amused at Picard's brusqueness, but it fled so quickly Riker wasn't sure if he imagined it. "We will be beaming aboard momentarily to discuss your new mission. Nechayev out."  
  
Commander, please escort our *guest* to my ready room when she arrives," Picard said as he turned on his heel and retreated into his sanctuary. Probably to curse whatever Gods were responsible for the Admiral's visit.  
  
"Yes sir," Riker replied to Picard's retreating back. "You have the bridge Yar."  
  
As he made his way to transporter room three he wondered what the admiral could want, but decided it mattered little either way. Chances were it would was something that didn't directly involve him, and he had little energy to spare for useless pondering.  
  
He barely acknowledged the young ensign operating the transporter. "They're ready for transport sir," the young man said. At one point in Riker's career he might have bothered to remember the man's name, but not now.  
  
"Then by all means, Ensign, beam them over." Soon the familiar whine of the transporters filled the room, and after the glittering light faded, two women stood on the platform. Riker opened his mouth to say hello, but no noise left.  
  
Standing there, next to the admiral, was a woman Will had thought, maybe even hoped, he would never see again. His ex-wife; Deanna Troi. 


	6. Chapter Four

Chapter Four  
  
Nods from the Gilded pointers- Nods from the Seconds slim- Decades of Arrogance between The Dial life And him  
  
Emily Dickinson Poem 287  
  
A whirlpool of emotions spun wildly through Riker, threatening to take him and his hard won control. He wanted to move, wanted to touch her, hurt her, yell and rant. But it was all too surreal. His brain felt thick, muffled by the weight of too many thoughts and feelings pounding against his skull. And Deanna just stood there with a serene, all-knowing expression on her face. Still he could not move. Aid came to him in the unlikely form of Admiral Nechayev.  
  
"Commander," the admiral said in greeting as she stepped off the platform. She made a vague gesture toward Deanna. "I would introduce you two, but I have a feeling that you already know one another. So, why don't we skip the pleasantries, and get down to business."  
  
Her brusque tone brought him back to the surface long enough to respond. "Yes ma'am." He tore his gaze away from Deanna, forcing his brain to concentrate on the task at hand. He walked out the transporter room door, not even bothering to see if the two women followed, he couldn't risk looking at her again. Even with his back turned he could feel those dark eyes on him, measuring, weighing, assessing.  
  
The short ride in the turbolift was silent and uncomfortable. Both women stood straight-backed, eyes forward, waiting for the doors to open. Will tried to copy their posture, but couldn't help the occasional glances in Deanna's direction. Now that the shock was starting to wear off, he noticed the subtle changes in her. She wore her hair in a functional upsweep, not an unflattering look, but certainly not a style that enflamed the senses. Her body, once soft and full, was harder and leaner. He could see the line of muscles beneath the thin material of her black uniform. There were more lines around her eyes and brow then he remembered, but he had seen the same signs of aging on his own face.  
  
*What is she doing here? How long is she staying? Will she talk to me? Does she hate me? Do I hate her?* Too many questions bounced inside his head. Part of him wanted to talk to her, to get the answers to his decade-old questions. Another part, a small, but still loud voice, wanted to nothing to do with her, unless it was to tell her how cold-hearted she was. He took a perverse moment of pleasure at that thought, visualizing the expression on her face when he told her he hated her. Would she be hurt? Angry? Either one would suit him nicely.  
  
The turbolift opening up on the bridge cut off his musings, and he stepped out quickly. "Admiral on the bridge," he called.  
  
The crew jumped immediately to attention as Nechayev passed them on her way to the ready room. Riker followed behind as they all filed into the captain's cramped ready room. The captain stood at attention in front of his desk, waiting for the Admiral to begin speaking.  
  
"At ease," Nechayev said absently. She gestured toward Deanna. "This is Starfleet Intelligence officer, Deanna Troi."  
  
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain," Deanna said. Her voice was just as Will remembered it, soft and lilting, with a trace of an accent that lent a lyrical quality to her words. A voice that still haunted his dreams.  
  
Picard looked warily at Troi, his eyebrows raised in question. "Starfleet Intelligence. Well it has been a while since an SI officer graced our door. To what do we owe the pleasure?" Picard noticed Riker still standing beside the door. "You are dismissed," he said, sounding like a king in his throne room.  
  
"Actually sir, what I have to say directly involves your first officer," Troi said. Riker froze in mid-stride. *What the hell does she want me for?* He turned and saw the same question written on Picard's features. He almost laughed at his captain's confusion; it was rare to see the stoic Picard nonplused.  
  
"Of course," Picard said, recovering quickly. "Please have a seat. May I offer anyone a drink?"  
  
"Let's just get on with it," Nechayev cut in. "I have other matters that require my attention." She shot Troi a scathing look. Obviously, the SI officer had pulled Nechayev away from other duties, and the admiral was less then happy about it.  
  
Troi ignored Nechayev, pulled a data PADD from her pocket, and slid it across the desk to Picard. "It is a transfer order from HQ," Deanna said as Picard picked up the PADD. "Requesting the temporary transfer of Commander William T. Riker into my command for a special ops mission." She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, and waited. Picard gave her a blank look.  
  
*Speechless twice in one day. That has to be a record,* Will thought. One of the many things that bothered him about Picard was his ability to pull a long-winded speech right out of his ass.  
  
After a few moments--in which time Picard seemed to realize that Troi was not telling him anything else-he answered. "I see. I assume I have no real choice in the matter."  
  
"You assume correctly," Troi replied. Her voice was sympathetic, her body language subdued, as if reminding Picard of the old adage about shooting the messenger. Her sympathy was so well played that even Riker might have been inclined to believe, if he didn't know her as well as he did. "Command considers this mission to be of the utmost importance."  
  
"And, of course, so top-secret that you cannot enlighten me as to what the mission is," Picard said.  
  
"No sir, I cannot," she said. "I can tell you that we will have him returned to you as quickly as possible. I know how much you rely on him, and I would hate to leave you without his services for too long."  
  
Riker didn't bother covering the snicker that escaped him. *It's probably Picard's wet dream to have me leave the ship,* he thought.  
  
"Far be it from me to belittle Commands choice in officers, but Commander Riker's record is not exactly spotless," Picard said. "I myself have lodged several complaints concerning his performance." *By all means, you bastard, talk about me as if I'm not even here. Tell them everything I do. Every mistake I've made.* Picard continued, unaware of the angry glare Riker was giving him. "He is willful, disorganized, anti-social, and insubordinate. I think you should be aware of what you are getting yourself into."  
  
"While I'm sure Commander Riker appreciates your honesty; as I do, I assure you the choice of the commander was well thought out. It would not be on his public records, for they are classified missions, but he participated in several missions that took him into Romulan space when he was a lieutenant." Troi said. Riker fancied a touch of indignation in her voice, as if she were standing up for him. But he still winced internally at the comment. It was because of one of those very missions, one that took him away for several months, that he was gone when everything in his life went to hell. When he got the news from his commanding officer that his daughter was dead.  
  
Deanna turned and looked at him for the first time since the meeting began. A look that lasted for no more then a split second, yet was filled with shared sorrow. That one glance gave him hope. Whatever else lay between them, and there was plenty of hurt feeling to go around, they still held some tenuous connection. The life they once shared together. He was so wrapped up in this thought; he barely noticed when the conversation continued.  
  
"Well, I see I have no choice in the matter," Picard was saying. He turned to Nechayev with a sneer of contempt. "And I suppose you are the one responsible for this decision?"  
  
"Not this time, Jean-Luc," Nechayev replied, the first time she had spoken since the meeting began. Which was strange in and of it self.  
  
Picard rubbed his chin in thought, as if going through all the implications of the small pieces of information he had been given. One thing Riker noticed about Picard was the tenacity with which he attacked a mystery. He hated to leave things unsolved, unexplored. He seemed to come to a conclusion, stood from his chair, and faced Riker.  
  
"By order of Starfleet Command, you are herby relieved of your duties to the *Enterprise* and placed under the authority of Starfleet Intelligence," Picard said, with what Riker thought to be a bit too much gusto.  
  
Riker felt a flash of annoyance. Not once during this little exchange had he been personally addressed, he was just overlooked like a piece of ugly furniture. "Don't I get a say in any of this?" he said managing to keep most of the anger out of his voice.  
  
"Actually," Troi said, "you still have one more year of mandatory service for Starfleet. So no, you do not in, fact, get a say." Her tone was neutral, neither warm nor annoyed. Data's voice had more humanity in it. Her casualness only served to fuel Riker's anger, his jaws mashing together in an attempt to hold back a tirade.  
  
"Can you at least tell me what this mission entails?" he asked.  
  
Deanna, perhaps sensing his ire, answered in a softer tone. "I'm sorry, not at this time. You will be briefed on the particulars of the mission when we board our transport ship at oh-eight-hundred hours tomorrow." With this, she turned to Capitan Picard. "The *Enterprise* is to hold this position until our departure, and maintain complete sub-space radio silence. And Admiral, thank you for your time and assistance in this matter. Starfleet Intelligence appreciates your cooperation."  
  
Both Picard and Nechayev nodded, Picard acknowledging her orders, Nechayev her thanks, though the admiral still looked displeased. "We will beam your possessions over to the *Enterprise*,"Nechayev said.  
  
"Commander Riker can take you to your quarters," Picard said dismissively.  
  
"Thank you." Troi turned on her heel and walked out the door, leaving Will to hurry after. As the ready room door swooshed shut behind him, he couldn't help but wonder what Deanna was getting him into.  
  
********************************************  
  
Jean-Luc Picard watched his first officer and Troi depart with a mixture of frustration and curiosity. "Charming woman," he said.  
  
"You have no idea," Nechayev replied. "She may not be the warmest person I've ever met, but she is one of the best."  
  
Picard, who held a personal dislike for Starfleet Intelligence and its officers, simply nodded. "Still, perhaps you could give me some clue as to what this mission is?" It would have surprised Riker to know that Picard, while not overly fond of him, did worry about his safety. Picard once thought Riker might be redeemable, which was why he chose him as the second in command, but after five years it was obvious that Riker did not want to be redeemed. He didn't want to work past the blemishes on his record that started building up less then ten years ago. In fact, Riker seemed perfectly content giving just enough to get by. That, more then anything, annoyed Picard. He had given the troubled officer a second chance, and Riker repaid him with apathy.  
  
"I wish I knew what this mission was about. SI is cloaked in so much secrecy it's hard to get a straight answer from anyone, and we've had to maintain sub-space radio silence too. Once I leave here, I'll be making a few inquires. I'll let you know what I find," Nechayev said.  
  
Picard was surprised, both by her wiliness to share the information and by the fact she had no idea what was going on in the first place. She was rarely left out of the information loop. "That would be appreciated," he said. "I do hope she knows what she's getting into with Riker."  
  
"I'm sure she does. You didn't notice, did you?" Nechayev asked.  
  
"Notice what?"  
  
"She's a Betazoid. And on top of that I'm pretty sure they know each other."  
  
"A Betazoid . . . now that is interesting."  
  
"I wouldn't bring it up to her if I were you," Nechayev said with a trace of a smile. "She's a little touchy. She overheard one of the ensigns on the *Goliath* using the word Betazoid in an unflattering analogy. She gave him a serious, and much deserved, dressing down."  
  
Picard could well imagine the analogy the unsuspecting ensign had used. 'Crazier then a Betazoid,' was a common expression. After the invasion of their homeworld, some twenty years ago, many Betazoids had proven to be unstable. The strain of sharing in the death and injury of thousands of their fellow species had driven more then a few over the edge. Though Picard believed it was a stereotype, he had read enough reports on the phenomenon to know that they were not completely unfounded. Apparently, there were serious drawbacks to being a telepathic race.  
  
Nechayev leaned back in her chair looking suddenly tired. "I am afraid I do have some other news." She looked down at her hands folded in her lap, drew a deep breathe, and began. "Yesterday, at fourteen-hundred hours, the hood was destroyed with all hands on deck." She spoke quickly; as if afraid she would lose her nerve. She looked up at Picard and he could see a trace of moisture in her eyes. Not tears, for the admiral was too much a professional to cry, but a sub-conscious acknowledgement of the two-hundred lives lost.  
  
"Captain Reeves was an excellent officer," Picard said more to himself than to her. "It is a shame to see him go."  
  
Nechayev simply nodded. A long silence developed between the two, each one thinking of the officers lost and the repercussions of that loss to the war effort.  
  
Finally, Nechayev spoke up. "The Romulans have been emboldened by their recent wins. They are making aggressive attacks along the borders, aided by the Klingons, as always. We even have reason to believe that the Cardassians are courting their favor. Now that it looks like the Romulans are the winning team, they're finally ready to throw their hats into the ring."  
  
Picard absorbed this information with a growing sense of foreboding. There were times it seemed that the universe transpired against the Federation. He rejected this thought as useless. He had seen enough to know that there was no such thing as omnipotent beings that guided the universe, just the ever-elusive power of chance. A power that was not in their favor.  
  
*We don't have long now,* he thought. It was a morbid thought, and he knew it. But somehow he doubted he was the first to think it. Nechayev seemed to be feeling the same way, if her defeated posture was any indication. But he kept the thought to himself, as did Nechayev. He simply nodded.  
  
"Thank you for telling me yourself."  
  
"You're welcome." She stood, and offered Jean-Luc her hand. "It's been a pleasure as always, Jean-Luc," she said with a trace of her usual sarcasm. "Hopefully we'll see each other again soon."  
  
"I look forward to that," Picard replied, as he shook her hand in one short movement.  
  
Nechayev turned and walked out of the ready room, leaving Picard behind to mull over the future of his ailing but beloved Federation.  
  
He could not quite shake the feeling that they were quickly running out of time. If they ever had enough to begin with. 


End file.
